


Be My Valentine

by MagdaTheMagpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Case Fic, Gen, M/M, Not really a Valentine Fic, Pre-Slash, Serial Killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-20 09:58:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6001747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Valentine Killer is London's latest serial killer, and Sherlock usually likes those because there's always something to look forward to. However, the murders hit a bit too close to home this time, and Sherlock must solve the case or risk losing John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love to Death

**Author's Note:**

> This is a special Valentine-themed fic for all my readers and for my bestie Abe, to thank you all for your continued support and all the love you've given me this past year.
> 
> For those who know me well, of course I couldn't do a traditional, fluffy Valentine fic, but who doesn't love a nice bloody murder on Valentine's day?   
> The story is complete and will be posted over the next four days. Enjoy! <3

Sherlock pushed himself away from the chimney with a triumphant grin and flipped his phone in the air, catching it easily with his off-hand before stashing it back in his pocket in one fluid motion. John was sure Sherlock would be doing a little jig, too, if he hadn’t been sitting there to witness it.

“Greg finally found you an interesting case, I take it?” John asked, feigning indifference while he pecked away at his keyboard with his two index fingers.

“Who?” Sherlock asked, then shook his head, not waiting for an answer. “No, John. That was Lestrade. He’s begging for my help. Says Anderson was crying at the crime scene because of the lack of evidence. Hurry.”

John abandoned what he was doing in a heartbeat to follow Sherlock, mainly because he quite liked the idea of seeing Anderson bawling like a baby. He’d snap a picture, too, if he could. For posterity. Served the berk right for all the name-calling he inflicted on Sherlock whenever they showed up at a crime scene _to help._ Bloody ungrateful is what he was.

By the time John stumbled out of 221B, Sherlock was holding the door of the cab open, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. _So impatient._ Admittedly, it _had_ been a long time since anything interesting had come their way, and Sherlock had become rather restless in the last couple of days. John had even caught himself hoping that Moriarty, of all people, would show up again to entertain his flatmate before the man drove him up the walls with his restlessness, but then again, John still recalled too vividly how the creep had pawed at him as he forced a semtex vest on him, how he had teased John about his relationship with Sherlock and mocked him for being so dull. John still had nightmares about that day, as if the ones from Afghanistan weren’t enough already.

“John?” Sherlock called with an impatient huff, dragging him out of his thoughts..

Sherlock had already bounded out of the cab and was now waiting for him to pay the cabbie before he could swoop away to the enticing crime scene with its alluring yellow tape, flashing blue and red lights, spectators milling about murmuring to one another… all that was like an amusement park to Sherlock. He was positively giddy at the prospect of a good murder, and Mrs Hudson was right, it was not decent, but  John supposed he should be grateful Sherlock had not only invited him along but had not forgotten him in the cab.

A house full of police activity came into view just as Donovan stepped out, but she didn’t greet Sherlock with her usual curt “Freak,” for once. Instead, she hurried away on unsteady legs, one hand over her mouth,  looking positively green in the face.

“Oh, this _must_ be good,” Sherlock enthused, rubbing his hands together like some stereotypical villain.

John, on the other hand, was worried. Donovan might be a conceited bitch at times, but she was a good copper, with years of experience, and he knew she’d already seen some pretty gruesome murders, so, for her to be in that state…

_See, Sherlock, I can make deductions too._

Even if John was a doctor, even if he had been a soldier, he steeled himself to see something truly gruesome. He only wished Sherlock did not look so happy about it. He’d crossed indecent into disturbing. He tended to forget the victims had been real people at some point, only seeing the puzzle to solve.

Greg spotted them and ushered them in, leading them all the way to the back of the house into a brightly lit kitchen. He looked worn out, but that was rather par for the course for the detective inspector. He was fidgeting a lot more than usual though, which could either mean the murder had affected even him, or that he badly needed a nicotine patch. Sherlock could probably tell the difference but John couldn’t.

And then there was Anderson, throwing a tantrum as he bellowed orders to his SOCO team. Contradictory orders. John scowled at him. Anderson was being more of an ass than usual, which he wouldn’t have thought possible, and John didn’t give him long before his Scene Of Crime Officers succumbed to the urge of stuffing their evidence bags and latex gloves down his throat.

“Anderson! Leave!” Sherlock snapped, his voice booming in the tiled kitchen and startling more than one officer. “There’s only so much stupid I can take in one day.”

Fortunately, Greg swooped in and pushed Anderson out of the kitchen, muttering urgently into his ear. John looked at Sherlock, already bent over the victim, and chanced a peek over his shoulder, which turned out to be a terrible idea when curry he’d had for lunch lurched halfway up his throat before he got himself back under control. Sherlock would never let him live it down if he got sick at a crime scene, however grisly it was. John felt someone give him a small pat on the back and turned to find Greg had returned and was offering a small, understanding smile that John promptly returned.

John knew he’d never forget _this_ crime scene anytime soon. It was so bizarre and macabre. The victim was a male, in his forties, sprawled naked, slumped, against the kitchen wall in a large puddle of his own blood and other bodily fluids released after death. The stench was terrible, but the sight much worse. If his first case with Sherlock had been called _A Study in Pink_ , and rightly so, this one definitively deserved to be called _A Study in Red._ The victim had been cut up in all the ways imaginable: small slashes, larges gouges, puncture wounds, and even flailed in places and disemboweled, presenting them with a sinister tableau straight out of the Dark Ages. In fact, the body looked nothing more than a huge lump of unappetizing minced meat. All except for the head that had been left carefully unblemished of even a single bruise or scrape, and was somehow holding up, staring at them with very dead eyes and a slightly horrified, gaping mouth. Curiosity got the better of him and John approached. Sherlock pointed at a single thin line of fishing rope circling his neck and fastened to the sturdy plumbing behind him.

“Only for show,” Sherlock pointed out, snapping his magnifying glass shut. “He fought against the restraint but not too hard and not for long. See here, there’s hardly any bruising and the skin is only lightly chafed.”

John nodded and checked the victim’s wrists and ankles, but he could find no other evidence that he had been restrained. It was impossible: the man had been tortured, had bled out from almost every single wound inflicted on him, so it had taken the poor sod a very long time to die. Surely, if he hadn’t been tied down, he would have fought back. Unless… Sherlock was looking at him expectantly.

“Drugged?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“Wouldn’t that be counter-productive to torture?” John wondered and Sherlock smiled this time. A devilish, _proud_ , smile. Greg looked a bit sick at the display.

“Exactly. I’m thinking a drug that affects the body but not the mind could have come into play here. Lestrade you might want your pathologist to look more deeply into their screening tests than usual. It might be very important in helping find our killer,” Sherlock pointed out and Greg dutifully noted it down.

“It seemed very important for the murderer that the head be left intact. Sending a message, I imagine. Well, _obviously_ sending a message,” Sherlock corrected and John sighed, he had lost Sherlock’s train of thought again.

“Why obviously?” he asked.

Sherlock scoffed and returned to his examination of the body, not deigning to answer him. Greg took pity on him though, his left hand turning John’s head a quarter counterclockwise without a word.

“Oh!” John exclaimed.

How could he have missed that? No wonder Sherlock had ignored him. On the wall directly opposite the corpse, the dead eyes fixed on them, were painted three words. Well, he said “painted”, but given the colour, texture and the way it dripped down the tiles, it had been written with the victim’s own blood and… bits.

 

**ROSES ARE RED**

 

John’s mind stalled. What the bloody hell? What? Why? That phrase was so much out of context that a couple of minutes later, he was still staring dumbly at it when a huff escaped Sherlock. His friend scoffed, shouted and even giggled at crimes scenes, but he never _huffed_ , even though he did it quite a lot at home.

“So Anderson is not a complete incompetent, then?” Greg asked smugly.

“Of course he is,” Sherlock snapped. “What do you know of the victim?”

“Nicholas Brawley, 42, divorced, two kids. Looks like he ran some shady business involving drugs so we’re looking into that. Could be a turf war hit, sending a message to a rival group. Those are usually pretty gruesome.”

“Doesn’t really make sense with that message,” Sherlock pointed out, a finger directed at the bloody poem.

“No, not really,” Greg admitted, raking a hand through his silver hair. “Which is why I called you. I got nothing on this: no clues, no leads, no suspects…”

“Brawley?” John muttered. That name stirred his memory. A patient, a soldier, a client? “Brawley… Nick Brawley?”

John spun around and looked back at the head that had been left intact, ignoring the rest of the body. He kneeled before it again, inspecting it carefully. The skin was very white given the loss of blood, the eyes starting to become murky after death, the expression of horror wasn’t helping either… but there was something familiar there.

“John?” Sherlock called.

John shushed him, waving his hand irritably at his friend as he strived to remember. Nick Brawley. He’d know a Nick Brawley a very long time ago, when he was just a kid, but this _could_ be him. Dark green eyes, dark reddish hair, brutish expression and heavily built. He’d been the very stereotype of the school bully and John had been his favorite picking at the time. An easy target, really.

John felt nausea wash over him again as the certainty of his discovery settled in. You’d think a former bullied would love to see his former bully reaping what he sowed. You’d be wrong. Not like this. This was sick. John abruptly stood up. He couldn’t look into those dead eyes anymore.

“John?” Sherlock asked, more softly this time.

John turned around. Sherlock’s hand hovered in mid-air as if he didn’t know how to reach out to him. John shook himself out of his stupor and managed a smile. Or maybe not. Sherlock didn’t look convinced, but he had at least let his hand drop back to his side.

“You know him?” Greg asked, eyebrows arching high.

John recalled what he’d said about the victim and his shady activities and snorted. No wonder Greg looked so surprised.

“Knew him? Yes, I guess you could say that, but I haven’t seen him since I was a kid. If I recall correctly, the last time was when he shoved me in a trash can and kicked it down the slope after school,” John answered and pretended not to see some of the officers snigger.

“School bully?” Greg asked sympathetically, to which John nodded.

“You must have been particularly small to fit in a trash can,” Sherlock observed, eliciting more snickers, quite involuntarily.

John looked at him incredulously before getting the topic back on track.

“So who found him? Not one of his kids, I hope?” John had hated the guy but he wouldn’t wish that on his kids.

“No, his ex-wife took the kids far away from him a few years ago. He was a bit of a violent drunk from what I got out of our police records, so I wouldn’t be surprised if that happened at home too. No, strangely enough it was an anonymous tip off that got us here.”

This got Sherlock’s interest and he grilled Greg to get every little detail out of the anonymous call that led them to Brawley’s corpse, which wasn’t much but Greg promised to send a copy of the recording to Baker Street.

“You think it’s the murderer?” Greg asked.

“Unlikely. Our killer is very smart. He hasn’t made one error to give any clue as to who he is and given the slaughter it turned out to be, that’s quite a feat. But I can’t dismiss such a clue out of hand.”

Greg seemed even more put out than before they’d arrived.

“So you got nothing for me? Absolutely nothing?”

“Not much,” Sherlock admitted to everyone’s surprise. “You’re looking for a professional, obviously, but this was a personal hit somehow, and one meant to send a personal message which is probably why that idiocy doesn’t make any sense to us.”

Sherlock glared at the message painted in blood on the wall as if the three words were a personal insult.

“I’d advise you to look into the people he might have personally insulted but I imagine he must have done that to everyone he’s ever met in his life.”

Greg grunted but thanked them nonetheless, and John followed Sherlock out of the house, glad to be away from the gruesome sight. He paused on the kerb to take deep, refreshing breaths while Sherlock hailed a taxi.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked once they were on their way back home.

“Yes. Yes, fine,” John answered quickly, not wanting to reminisce about his connection to the victim again. It was one thing to investigate complete strangers, but he didn’t like the personal dimension this case was taking. “How about you? It’s rare for you not to get more out of a crime scene.”

“No, it’s actually a nice change of pace. Solving cases in a matter of minutes becomes tedious after a while.”

The way Sherlock said that, picking off imaginary lint from his impeccable suit, was so haughty that John dissolved into laughter. Judging by Sherlock’s pleased expression, that had been his goal all along and John nudged his shoulder in thanks.

 

Later that day, Sherlock received a very disgruntled call from Greg informing him that the recording of the tip-off had mysteriously disappeared. Sherlock seemed torn between being exasperated at the Yard for being so very incompetent, and thrilled that the killer was so very clever.

  


* * *

 

 

“There’s been another,” Sherlock shouted up the stairs one week later.

John dressed in record time, yelling down the staircase: “Another what?”

He could practically hear his friend rolling his eyes. They only had one open case at the moment: the murder of Nick Brawley. They hadn’t made any progress whatsoever towards solving it, but neither had the Yard.

As they made their way to the crime scene, Sherlock was fidgeting on the car seat, as if he’d been waiting for another murder all along and couldn’t hold it in any more. John hadn’t. He still shuddered at the mere thought of the last crime scene, and not only because he’d known the victim.

“There you are,” Greg groused as they stepped out of the cab in front of a small restaurant. “Follow me.”

John was a bit surprised at the inspector’s irascible welcome. It was very unlike him. Even when he was under a lot of pressure and had to put up with Anderson and Sherlock bickering, he always had a smile to spare them upon arrival. John wondered if maybe Sherlock had pinched his badge again, but his friend seemed just as surprised as he was.

They were led into a back room off the kitchen and into a big walk in freezer. John cursed. The weather had been kind lately and he wasn’t dressed for a prolonged visit to the freezer, so he found himself tucking his hands deep in his pockets and jumping from one foot to the other while his breath fogged the air in front of him.

This crime scene looked nothing like the last, mostly because of the lack of red blood everywhere, and the victim was not cut up at all, but very blue in the face which wasn’t surprising given where they were standing. He’d probably frozen to death, John concluded after a cursory examination of the body.

He almost asked the stupid question of why Greg thought this murder was linked to the last since they were clearly nothing alike, but he decided to look around first and was rewarded with the three words carved into the wall facing the body:

 

**VIOLETS ARE BLUE**

 

This was completely ridiculous. What kind of nutjob murdered people and left bad poetry behind?

“The victim is Alistair Cornwall,” Greg stated but didn’t offer more information.

John felt the blood drain from his face because no two people could have such a ridiculous name. Suddenly, John wasn’t feeling the cold anymore, only a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“What?” John squeaked, needing to hear a different name, a stranger’s name.

His eyes flicked from Greg who looked defeated, to the victim, whose face was familiar now that he could put a name to it.

“You know him?” Sherlock asked sharply, rounding on him.

“I hoped it was another John Watson when I pulled up the police records,” Greg said. “Come on, I’d better get you out of here.”

Greg grabbed his elbow and spun him around, making John backtrack all the way to his unmarked police car, doing his best to keep up with Greg’s longer strides.

“You’re arresting me?” John asked, aghast.

“Of course not,” Greg muttered. “But you have to put yourself in my place, John. You knew both victims and they were not exactly your friends, were they? I have to at least take you in for a statement.”

“And check my alibis?” John asked, irritated.

Greg looked like a puppy that had just chewed out his master’s favourite shoe and was now being lectured.

“All right, all right. I get it. I’m not happy about it, mind, but I understand,” John told the inspector who finally let out the breath he’d been holding, which made him wonder if Greg would have arrested him if he hadn’t complied.

It wasn’t his fault, he was just doing his job. God knew John hated when his patients started shouting abuse at him when they didn’t like his advice. This was the same, kind of. Sherlock strode over, pushing constables out of his way. He planted himself in front of Greg. John was relieved to see him. For a moment, he’d feared Sherlock was so engrossed in the crime scene that he would let him get swept off to Scotland Yard without so much as a good-bye.

“I’m coming too,” he announced and climbed into the back of the car, surprising both of them.

Greg shrugged and motioned for John to get in before he got up front and started the car.

 

* * *

 

 

It was awkward, walking into Scotland yard as a suspect. John couldn’t be more grateful that Greg had not put him into handcuffs. Being friends with a DI did come with a few perks. Unfortunately, they still had to use one of the interrogation rooms instead of Greg’s more familiar office, which was enough to raise a few eyebrows amongst the more familiar Yarders, although most of them were probably suspecting Sherlock to be the one being interrogated. But it had to be official, up to the recording of the interview and the presence of another officer, which, fortunately, was _not_ Donovan. He didn’t think he could stomach her snide remarks right now.

John had to go over how he knew the first victim and when he’d last seen him again. When Greg asked for an alibi for the estimated time of death however, John could only say he was in their flat at Baker Street, fast asleep. He remembered that much because it had been Valentine’s Day and he hadn’t bothered finding a date this year.

“Alone?” Greg pressed, his eyes glancing for an instant at Sherlock who sat stoically at John’s side.

“Of course, alone!” John snapped.

“Sherlock, I know you don’t sleep much. Can you at least confirm John didn’t leave the flat,” Greg pressed, sheepishly avoiding John’s glare.

Sherlock hesitated and John understood his dilemma.

“No,” John intervened before his flatmate decided to lie for him. “Sherlock was out all night, at St Bart’s, I think.”

It would have been stupid to lie. Any number of people could have seen Sherlock that night, especially since _he_ had a date on Valentine’s day, with body parts, but still, he was more successful that John.

“Molly called. She had a few interesting specimens she thought I might be interested in. I spent the night in the morgue,” Sherlock added apologetically and John squeezed his knee under the table.

He had no reason to be sorry, or to lie for him. John was innocent after all, he didn’t _need_ an alibi.

“Okay,” Greg said uncertainly. “Alistair Cornwall, the second victim. How do you know him?”

John sighed. This was all so stupid.

“I was on leave during my my second tour. I went to the pub to drink with a couple of friends, got drunk, got into a fight about a girl, the usual. I wouldn’t even know the guy’s name if he hadn’t been such a dick, insisting on pressing charges against me. He was just as drunk and just as much in the wrong as I was. Charges were dropped in the end, case closed.”

“So you hadn’t seen him since?” Greg clarified.

“Of course not,” John replied and became very anxious as he realized what the next question would be. He turned wide eyes towards Sherlock who cursed. Sherlock had been out all night yesterday, staking out Brawley’s suppliers in the hopes to get a lead. John didn’t like leaving Sherlock on his own but he had a long day at the clinic on top of everything else.

“No alibi,” John confessed before Sherlock could think up a lie. Sherlock would lie for him, he could see it in his eyes, but many in Scotland Yard would jump at the first excuse to have him convicted for it, and when that fell through, as it undoubtedly would, all the Yarders Sherlock had ever insulted would do their best to get him barred from being called on as a consulting detective ever again. John couldn’t do that to him. Sherlock lived for those cases, and if he was deprived of it, who knew what demons he’d return to?

“Urgh,” Greg groaned. “You’re not helping your case, John.”

“Well, next time I need an alibi, why don’t you warn me in advance?” John snapped. “Are you arresting me or not?”

“No,” Greg said. “You’re the only link between the victims but there’s no hard evidence against you. Thank God,” the inspector added under his breath. “Did you find anything on the second crime scene, Sherlock?”

“No. Just as clean as the first. Anderson will tell you as much. Definitely the same person, despite the change in MO.” Sherlock muttered. “Come on, John. Let’s leave before this lot decide you should be arrested for sleeping in your bed and being idiotically honest.”

John glanced at Greg who gave him a sharp nod. It looked like he wanted to say more but his eyes slid to the officer next to him and he just waved them off. John felt like he had been hit by a battering ram. His whole body felt heavy and his mind numb. Just what was going on? How was it that _he_ , John Watson, found himself in the middle of this mess?

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you really find nothing at the crime scene?” John asked Sherlock once they were back behind closed doors at Baker Street.

“I didn’t _find_ anything,” Sherlock scolded, his voice haughty as if he’d just insulted him. “Unlike Anderson, I don’t just stumble around blindly hoping to fall upon evidence.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Fine. What have you _deduced_ from the crime scene, then? Is that better?”

“Somewhat,” Sherlock said before throwing himself into his armchair and inviting John to do the same. He’d rather have tea first, but something about his Sherlock’s expression was bothering him. “You’ve seen the messages: the first one was painted quite high, but blood is so easy to apply and the killer could be of small stature and have written it with his arm fully extended, or tall and written at chest height. Both are equally probable. The second message on the other hand was scratched into the metallic walls with a broad blade, it would be much more difficult to do.”

John tried to conjure the image of the second message left in the walk-in freezer but Greg had quickly whisked him out of there once he had dropped the victim’s name. Had it been at eye-level? No, just a little higher, just where John would have written it. Sherlock would write it that much higher.

“Oh, great. So the killer just happens to be exactly my height?” John grumbled.

“Afraid so, or it’s just a clever way of incriminating you even more. Either way, the chances Anderson picks that up are very slim.”

John sagged back in his chair, feeling everything was spinning out of control and fearing it was only the beginning.

“This is not the end,” Sherlock told him as if he had read his thoughts. “That...poem has four lines, I believe?”

John nodded.

“ _Roses are red, Violets are blue, Sugar is sweet, And so are you,_ ” John recited bitterly. “That’s the most common version, but there are a number of others. So... what? Should we expect two more murders? One killed by sugar… How do you even kill someone with sugar? Choke him with the stuff? And then the last-”

_And so are you._

“Me?” John breathed out. “I’m the fourth victim?”

“As if I’d let him get to you,” Sherlock scoffed dismissively, replacing the cold dread that had just washed over John with a warm glow. “But first, we have the third target to consider. Any ideas?”

“You want a list of all the people who’ve beaten me up?” John laughed. “That might be rather long. I was a small, skinny kid that made an ideal target and then I was in the army, remember? We tend to be a rowdy folk, especially when we’re bored, or under a lot of stress.”

“So during your whole time in Afghanistan, then,” Sherlock concluded.

“That would be correct. And that’s not taking into account all the bad guys we’ve been chasing around London in the last year. In fact, if I’d had to choose two targets, it wouldn’t have been those two, I hardly even remembered them.”

Sherlock hummed, his fingers steepling against his chin in his thinking pose. Sorting facts, John decided, so he waited patiently, his own thoughts pulling him into wild theories: he had a split personality and his evil half was killing off his former foes, he had killed them while sleep-walking… Ridiculous. John was feeling guilty because it seemed they had been killed because of their connection to him, true, but that didn’t mean he was the one who’d killed them. The victims had just been unfortunate enough to pick on John Watson at some point during their life, but that didn’t make him _responsible_ for their deaths. The murderer was responsible and only him. The knot in the pit of his stomach told him he wasn’t convincing even himself.

The message, on the other hand, was clearly addressed to him, but John didn’t get it. It hardly sounded like a warning. It was just the kind of bad poetry you found in Valentine’s cards, minus the corpses. And who would think it was a good idea to woo you with the mutilated bodies of your enemies?  Except that he would be the fourth victim, wouldn’t he?

_And so are you._

So someone was toying with him? Yes, that made much more sense. But why? What would be the point? He was nobody special, just an ex-army doctor who followed Sherlock around on his cases. So was this all for Sherlock’s benefit? But then why didn’t they go around killing Sherlock’s foes?  And God knows he had a load more of them than John did.

John huffed. He was getting nowhere and Sherlock was scowling, so he must be stuck too.

“Not enough data,” his friend concluded. “Too many theories.”

John nodded in understanding and got up from his seat.

“I’m not all that hungry, there’s left-overs in the fridge if you want,” John told him as he shuffled towards the stairs to his bedroom.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sherlock asked.

“To bed, Sherlock. I’m exhausted. This whole day was a mess,” he ground out, trying not to lose his temper because Sherlock wasn’t responsible for his foul mood for once. On the contrary, he’d been surprisingly supportive. That didn’t stop him from hoping Sherlock didn’t have plans of dragging him along on a wild goose chase around London tonight because he couldn’t deal with that right now.

“No. I mean, I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Sherlock told him. “Since you’re so set on not letting me lie a little to Lestrade to give you an alibi, the next time it happens, you’re bloody well going to have an iron-clad one.”

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief but settled with:

“There’s no such thing as a little lie, Sherlock. I’m sure we’ve discussed this already, especially where the Yard is concerned.” He sighed at his friend’s unrepentant look. “Where am I supposed to sleep, then?”

John glanced at the sofa but knew his shoulder would be killing him if he spent even a single night sleeping on it. Sherlock was going a bit overboard with this. He only needed to make sure he didn’t leave the flat. Of course, John could technically sneak out unawares by leaving through the fire escape next to his bedroom window and Sherlock had undoubtedly taken that into consideration. Maybe he could drag his mattress down?

“Just take my bed,” Sherlock muttered. “And leave the door open so I can see you.”

“You need to sleep too, you know,” John argued.

“Not while I’m on a case,” Sherlock countered with the same old argument.

John sighed and accepted, thanking Sherlock after making sure he didn’t, in fact, have any experiments hidden in or under the bed. After getting in his pajamas and brushing his teeth, John let himself fall heavily into the soft mattress. A bit too soft for his taste but he could get used to it, his shoulder certainly appreciated the change. John turned and fluffed up the pillow, overwhelmed for an instant by Sherlock’s scent but it was nice, it made him feel safe and in the next moment, he was fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

John shuffled into the kitchen the next morning to find Sherlock with his nose buried in a petri dish full of… no, he didn’t actually want to know, not this early in the morning. He averted his gaze, trying to locate the kettle instead because Sherlock had a tendency to push it out of his way when he needed more room doing… whatever he was doing and that he was definitely not trying to guess at.

“Mornin’” he mumbled before preparing breakfast.

Two mugs of tea, no sugar for him, two for Sherlock. Two and a half toasts for him, half a toast for Sherlock.

“Any news?” he asked after his first sip of tea.

“Nope,” Sherlock answered, poking at something with a scalpel.

John wince as it squeaked. What the hell was that? Had Sherlock found an alien lifeform? Or created one of his own?  He decided he’d rather not know.

“Sleep well?” Sherlock asked, still bent over his petri-dish.

John startled. Sherlock never asked him that.

“Why? What did I do?” John couldn’t remember having a nightmare. Had he just been snoring louder than usual?

Sherlock wouldn’t answer though, just stared at him with a knowing smile.

“Twat,” John groused, hiding behind the newspaper Mrs Hudson must have brought up earlier.

Wait, what time was it? John looked at the oven’s clock and found he’d overslept by two hours. Good thing he wasn’t working at the clinic today because Sherlock would never have thought to wake him up. John pointedly ignored Sherlock’s amused gaze and deliberately smeared raspberry jam on his flatmate’s dry half-toast, knowing how much he hated it. John didn’t believe so much in the saying “pick your battles” as he did  in using swift retaliation. Of course, Sherlock then made a point of eating the whole piece of toast, even if his sour face diminished his triumphant look. Maybe Mycroft had a point and they really were behaving like two kids, but John didn’t care, he liked things this way.

Admitting defeat, John returned his attention to the newspaper and groaned when he read the headline adorning the front page:

 

**GRISLY MURDERS OF**

**THE VALENTINE KILLER**

 

John had to check the contents of the article to verify that they were actually talking about the Brawley and Cornwall murders.

“That is seriously such a lame name. Are the journalists trying to provoke him on purpose?” John snarled in disgust, throwing the paper away.

“Someone at Scotland Yard visibly let slip something about the little messages left behind. It's going to make Lestrade’s job a lot more difficult,” Sherlock said off handedly. “If I were him, I’d expect a few copycats to crop up in the next few days.”

“You’d better not let me out of your sight then. Greg might be coming with handcuffs next time around.”

Sherlock smiled and assured him he didn’t intend to.

John was surprised to learn Sherlock was waiting for a client in an hour. He didn’t usually take a new client when a case as interesting as - John absolutely refused to call them the Valentine murders - the present one was ongoing, but Sherlock insisted there was nothing he could do until the murderer slipped up and that he was, as a result, bored.

Their client came to them about the theft of his niece’s violin. He had gone to Scotland Yard to report it, which made Sherlock chuckle and make a disparaging comment about the chances of the Yard finding it, not to mention know what it was they should be looking for and return it to him in one piece. John sympathized with their client, but it hardly seemed worth the bother to hire a private detective to get a kid’s violin back.

“The violin is insured, I assume?” Sherlock asked.

Their client looked affronted.

“Of course it bloody well is. It’s only a Ruggieri, but it’s still worth several thousand pounds and their sales rate keeps shooting up with every auction, which is probably why it was stolen in the first place!”

John knew nothing about instruments but Sherlock was nodding along. Maybe he wanted to take this case to save a violin from an uncertain fate? He glanced at Sherlock’s own violin, sitting against its case in the corner by the window. He had no idea if it was rare or how much it was worth, but considering how Sherlock sometimes tortured the poor thing, he hoped it wasn’t anything like their client’s precious instrument.

“But it's not only because of its value I want it back. I could just cash in the insurance and buy Lily a new one,” the client finished pleading his case.

“It’s more about the sentimental value,” Sherlock said.

The client nodded sadly explaining it had long been in the family. Sherlock accepted the case and pushed their guest out the door with a promise to contact him as soon as he got his violin back.

“You’re a big softy, you know that?” John teased when Sherlock turned around and he would have sworn Sherlock had blushed, but, of course, he huffed and flounced away.

 

* * *

 

 

The Ruggieri case turned out to be much more time-consuming and interesting than either of them could have imagined. It had them running all over London for four days, crashing posh parties, sneaking into concerts, private auctions and collections, until they found a group specialized in the theft and resale of antiques on the black market abroad. They traced the violin back to a storage warehouse near the docks, and, as a bonus, found the one who had stolen the violin from the poor defenceless little girl. Unfortunately, they hadn't planned such a meeting, it was pure chance they found themselves there at the same time, and their culprit was a big brute of a man who could have snapped either of them in two in one of his meaty paws. They would have been at a serious disadvantage without his gun, but Sherlock calmly took it in stride, as usual, looking for all the world like he’d planned this meeting.

“Where is the Ruggieri?” Sherlock questioned while John watched his back, pistol at the ready.

John scanned the warehouse but there were so many shadows everywhere… He could have sworn he heard-

“Get down!” he shouted, throwing himself at Sherlock’s back and pinning him to the ground while a couple more bullets whizzed above them.

The bastard must have had an accomplice sneak up on them while they talked, and he used the diversion to scramble to his feet and kick John right in the face. The shock made him lose the grip on his pistol but before he could snatch it up again, the brute dropped dead next to them, a dark bullet hole through the forehead and a surprised expression on his face. The pistol shots suddenly stopped and they heard another body fall to the floor with a meaty thud.

Sherlock helped John up when no one else seemed to be either shooting or dropping dead, and he quickly snatched his pistol back from under the dead man.

“What the bloody hell happened?” John asked, wincing as pain shot through his face.

It felt like he had split his lip and bruised half his face. He’d bet he would soon have the clear imprint of a boot on his face.

Sherlock flashed his torchlight around, examining the two bodies and not finding anymore, or anyone else, lurking around.

“I’m not sure. It looks like those two were executed. One bullet to the head. Clean shot, probably a sniper.”

“Rivals? Customers?” John asked but couldn’t quite believe it.

Sherlock didn’t know, which worried John more than anything else. But what was worse was that they now had to call in Greg for the two dead bodies they had on their hands, which was a bit not good since the inspector probably wanted John, in particular, to keep his nose out of any more murders.

It pained John to see Greg being civil, but cooler than he usually was with them, and the terrible duo, Anderson and Donovan, made it clear that they thought John was just as much a psychopath as Sherlock now.

 

The silver lining in all that debacle was that they eventually managed to find their client’s violin and John snapped a picture of Sherlock being hugged to death by the twelve year old niece when he handed the instrument back to her. John would have that adorable picture framed and _nailed_ to the wall. He should probably give one to Mrs Hudson too, if only for safekeeping.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ouch! Be careful!” John exclaimed, squirming out of Sherlock’s grip. “Jesus, no wonder you never became a doctor. You’re about as careful as a gorilla doing needlework.”

“How can you be so sensitive to pain? You were a soldier, for God’s sake,” Sherlock snapped, dabbing the antiseptic-doused cotton viciously at his split lip again.

“Wait till you need patching up again, Sherlock,” John warned. “I might lose my touch.”

“You wouldn’t,” Sherlock replied but his touch suddenly became softer and John sighed in relief, leaning back into his hand.

The doorbell rang and John hurried down to get the food they’d ordered for dinner because Sherlock clearly had no intention of doing so himself.

“Uhm, curry,” John moaned when he opened the cardboard box and a puff of steam warmed his battered face. He then tossed a couple of chopsticks at the other man’s head but he caught them mid-air. “You eat too, Sherlock. No excuses, we closed a case tonight and you’re well overdue for some feeding.”

Sherlock grumbled but snatched the box of dumplings away. John knew he wouldn’t have any of those himself tonight but it was for a good cause. Sherlock needed the food more than he did. But in the end, John had hardly eaten half his portion before he felt completely exhausted. He wasn’t even sure he’d make it to the bed and was sure as hell he wouldn’t bother with changing into his pajamas.

To his surprise, Sherlock followed him too, looking just as sleepy given the way he was dragging his feet, but it had been a long, tiring case after all. John made a vague gesture at the bed to ask which side he usually slept on but Sherlock shrugged and let himself fall forward, sticking his arm out to drag John down with his and they both giggled like the two overgrown kids they apparently were. John yawned, Sherlock sighed, sounding content, and then… nothing.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Love is Blind

“Sherlock!” a voice called, but it seemed both too far away to make any sense, yet close enough to send a disagreeable piercing pain through his eardrums and frontal lobe, so he tried batting it away, but his hands felt heavy, so heavy.

“Sherlock! Wake up, for Christ’s sake! This is really not the time to be sleeping!” the voice insisted, and then he felt a tingling sensation in his left cheek.

Did someone just slap him? The anger finally pulled him out of his slumber. He blinked against the too strong light pouring through the window. His eyeballs hurt. He closed them again but he’d seen his bedroom window. 221B Baker Street. Home. Safe. What could be so bloody urgent then?

“Les’rade?” Sherlock mumbled now that he’d reconciled the sharp voice to the glimpse of the silvery mop of hair of the least annoying Scotland Yard inspector. Sherlock frowned when the name didn’t come out right. “Les’rade,” he tried again, but no, his mouth was not working correctly, his jaw felt slack and uncooperative as if it was still half-asleep and full of cotton.

“Jesus, Sherlock! What happened to you? Were you drugged?” Lestrade asked, trying to keep his left  eyelid open between two of his fingers. Sherlock batted him away, the light was still too bright and Lestrade’s voice was so loud and fast that he had to shush him. “You didn’t take anything, did you?” he asked more quietly this time, pulling at his sleeves. 

“He’s not upstairs,” another voice cut in.

Just how many people had invaded his bedroom? Was this another inane drug-bust? What did he want this time?

“Sherlock, where’s John?” Lestrade asked.

That jolted Sherlock awake a notch... for all of two seconds before his body went slack again. John was missing? He’d been right there on the bed next to him. Sherlock motioned at the bed, but realized it was empty. No John. Lestrade had probably checked before asking, he wasn’t  _ that _ stupid, and the other voice had said he wasn’t upstairs.

“John?” Sherlock managed to ask, wanting to know where he was.

“Yes! John! Where is he?” Lestrade insisted.

Oh right. They didn’t know either. Something was definitely wrong with his mind, it was soooooooo slow. Sherlock giggled. Was this how the average mind worked? It was a bit like a defective computer from the eighties. No wonder everyone was so dull.

Lestrade sighed and decided to shout at the other invaders with his loud voice. So loud. Sherlock cringed and crumpled back into a foetal position on his bed, throwing the blanket over his head to shield him from the outside world.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Lestrade said once he had finished barking at his underlings and managed to pull the blanket away. “Let’s get you sorted out at the hospital.”

“No!” Sherlock growled and snatched the blanket back, rolling himself in it twice so Lestrade would be powerless against him. The ultimate defense.

“Oi! Sherlock, no! Come on, quit being such a brat.”

Sherlock heard him stomp around his bedroom, then he pulled at his blanket-armor.

“God, I can’t believe that’s twice you got me with that stupid trick. How can you even breath in there? You must have been a real hellion when you were a kid.” Lestrade cut himself off mid-rant when his phone rang.

Sherlock ignored the half of the conversation he was privy to in his warm and safe cocoon, but then, Lestrade started chuckling which really didn’t bode well if past experiences were anything to go by. “You’re in so much trouble now, Sherlock. Just you wait,” he said.

Sherlock peaked out of his blanket just in time to catch Lestrade’s retreating back but he quickly lost interest. Why was he even here? A case? Well, it couldn’t be very interesting if John wasn’t kicking him out of bed. Twenty minutes later and Sherlock understood his mistake. He should have guessed some unnamed horror was looming over his head after Lestrade’s parting shot. His bedroom’s privacy fell to a second invasion: Lestrade’s heavy footsteps, a woman’s high-heels and another man’s lighter footfalls punctuated by the unmistakable tapping of an umbrella tip every other step. Mycroft. Thankfully, his blanket-fort still held strong.

“Well, brother dear. I can’t say I’m all that surprised, but mummy will be terribly disappointed by your relapse.”

A pique of anger cleared his head. The mere presence of his brother could do that to him, but having to listen to one of his holier-than-thou lectures was more than he could stand. He had to strike first before Mycroft could start in on him, so he broke out of his cosy armor and forced his eyes open to look his brother up and down.

“How is the cake industry going?” is what he wanted to say, but what he garbled out was barely understandable.

Mycroft’s mouth twitched for an instant, but instead of retaliating, his eyes darted about, observing, analysing.

“I think you were correct, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Anthea, a blood sample, if you please.”

The woman who had come in with Mycroft, one of his minions no doubt, stepped forward and kneeled before Sherlock. He watched with interest as she opened a small leather case and prepared a needle before extending a hand towards him. Sherlock looked at Mycroft.

“It’s simple, Sherlock, either you let my assistant take a small blood sample willingly or I will whisk you off to the nearest hospital and have them do a whole battery of tests on you. And given your past, they won’t hesitate to do so. I could even have you transferred to your old recovery center for a couple of weeks, I know how much you enjoyed your stay there.”

Sherlock’s arm shot forward. Mycroft would do it, too. The prick. Why wasn’t John here to defend him? He could do this himself. John was a doctor, after all, whereas he had no idea what this woman was. Where  _ was _ John?

“John?” he asked, looking at his brother. He might be the most pompous, overbearing person he knew, but he was also the most well-informed.

Sherlock waited for his answer with baited breath. He had a feeling he had already asked this very question not long ago, but couldn’t for the life of him remember what the answer had been. Something was wrong with his mind, it was all muddled, and slow. So slow. That wouldn’t do. He was nothing without his mind. He’d just be another idiot who never thinks, never observes. Boring.

The woman let go of his arm and left without a word. Sherlock wondered if she could speak or if Mycroft had her tongue cut out. It would be a good way to make sure your secrets were safe, but he was pretty sure it was illegal.

“John, yes. The crux of the matter,” Mycroft’s overly unctuous voice finally answered. God, he was so annoying in every way possible and imaginable. “If you’ve managed to pull yourself together now, we might try to help the poor man out.”

Dread and adrenaline coursed through his body at those words. He wriggled out of the blanket and scrambled out of bed, glad he was already dressed, even if his clothes were admittedly a bit rumpled. 

_ John needs help? John is in danger? _

Mycroft smiled, pleased with himself for some unfathomable reason, but thankfully kept his gob shut for once. Sherlock hurried past a couple of police officers and headed for the kitchen. He needed something to jumpstart his mind. It was still sluggish, his thoughts colliding in a messy pile-up in the middle of his mind palace because he couldn’t process them fast enough.

_ John is in danger. _

Sherlock shoved a mugful of yesterday’s coffee in the microwave, then chugged it down without taking the time to add sugar before heating a second. He stuck four nicotine patches on his arm in between scalding gulps of coffee, deploring the time delay all this would take before kicking into action. Sherlock finally faced the two men who would supposedly help him help John. Lestrade seemed more interested in his coffee though, so Sherlock told him to just help himself. He didn’t bother offering anything to Mycroft, he would just refuse, knowing what kind of experiments Sherlock got up to in this very kitchen.

_ John needs me. _

“John,” Sherlock said, glad his mouth seemed to be back under his control. “Where is John?”

“Your guess is as good as mine for once, brother dear. Do make an effort to recall last night. It seems whatever drugs you were given are starting to dissipate,” Mycroft told him.

Sherlock scowled. Drugs. To think he used to revel in the oblivion they promised… He didn’t need them anymore, he had John. He had to find John. Sherlock sat on the edge of the kitchen table and closed his eyes to call forth the memory of last night: the chase, the warehouse, the big brute and the shooting,  _ fast-forward,  _ the violin, the client and his clinging niece, the cab-ride back,  _ fast-forward _ . Ah, here it was: 221B Baker Street. John was with him. Home. Safe.

“If you could share it with us, that would be helpful,” Lestrade interrupted.

Sherlock opened an eye to glare at him, then followed his train of thought, giving the two men the basics as he did so.

“Returned to Baker Street by cab at about twenty past nine. John ordered take-away while I fetched the first aid-kit. I cleaned his split lip and he kept complaining I wasn’t doing it right,” Sherlock smiled at the memory. “The food arrived, we ate…”

Sherlock’s memory was getting hazy, jumpy, there was a lot of giggling involved. He wasn’t about to share  _ that _ with them.

“We went to bed, end of story.”

“That was the worst account I have ever received, Sherlock. You’re not even trying,” Mycroft huffed, then pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock was delighted because that meant Mycroft was one step away from stuffing his face with cake. “I guess it can’t be helped, I’ll walk you through it until your brain decides to join us. Did you eat the same thing?”

“No. I pinched the dumplings. John had the curry. I wasn’t very hungry and only ate because John insisted, as usual after a case,” Sherlock frowned, thinking back but the memory was still blurry. They’d been talking as they ate, but not for long... “We didn’t eat all that much.”

“And John ordered the food? Did he take the delivery too?”

“Yes, he hurried down when we heard the doorbell so Mrs Hudson wouldn’t be bothered,” Sherlock recalled.

Mycroft and Lestrade shared a glance.

“Oh! Stop being ridiculous, you two. John did not drug my food. We always do things this way and last night was no different.”

Mycroft’s mouth was pinched. That meant he disagreed but was biting back a retort. Ever the politician.

“You both went to bed? You’re positive?” Lestrade asked next.

“Of course I am. We were both exhausted,” Sherlock frowned at that, he should have known it was not normal for him to be suddenly so tired. His mind must have been already affected by the drug. “John was just as out of it as me. In fact, he was the one who decided to go to bed first and I followed him.”

“Followed him?” Lestrade asked. “I thought… John said…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“After you so tactfully pointed out John was not, and I quote, ‘helping his case’, by not having an alibi for either murder, I made sure I could keep a watchful eye on him.”

“By sleeping with him?” Mycroft mocked.

Sherlock decided such a poor jab was not even worth an answer, and pointedly ignored him, addressing Lestrade instead.

“We both fell asleep on my bed. End of story. Can we stop wasting time here and actually do something useful to find John? He might be hurt or...or...” 

Mycroft tutted in disapproval.

“I can have you locked away for a weeks in your very special recovering unit, Sherlock, so please try to be sensible about this crisis before you go running around the streets, for all the good it will do you.”

“Are you even  _ trying _ to find John?” Sherlock snapped.

“Of course we are,” Lestrade answered this time. “We sent his description out to patrols, and I imagine Mycroft is doing his thing with the CCTVs.”

Mycroft nodded and stared at Sherlock for a long minute, his lips curling up at whatever he thought he’d accomplished by coming here, then turned around so he could have the last word: “I’ll be in touch.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to try and up-one him. This wasn’t the time for such childish games.

“Phone.”

The word escaped Sherlock before he went stumbling off to find his own, finding it on the table where they’d eaten the night before. He speed-dialed John.

“I did try that, you know,” Lestrade groused. “He’s not answering. We’ll be tracing his phone but it takes-”

Sherlock shushed him with wide hand gestures, following the buzzing sound his ear had picked up, right up to John’s armchair, no, the little table next to it and there it was. Sherlock hung up his phone and picked up John’s. He wouldn’t leave without it. He wouldn’t cut that constant link between them.

“John didn’t leave,” he told Lestrade.

“What? You mean he’s still here?” Lestrade asked, looking around as if John might pop out of a cupboard.

“Are you being deliberately dense?” Sherlock snapped. “No, I mean he was taken.”

The other man’s expressions switched from one extreme to the other until it settle on pity of all things.

“What?” Sherlock grumbled, figuring the man was going to say something truly stupid again.

“It must be nice, trusting someone so completely. I’ve never known that and I’ve been married. I’m… envious, I guess.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

Why was Lestrade so set on wasting his time? Why wouldn’t he trust John? What did that have to do with-

“Why are you here, Lestrade? Why did you come here?”

Lestrade took a step back.

“Ah. It looks like you’re back to your old self. I wondered when you’d ask. There was another Valentine murder.”

“Are you really calling them that? It’s ridiculous.”

Lestrade shrugged.

“So did another of John’s foes turn up dead? By sugar, I believe, this time?”

“Yes, but it’s worse than that, I’m afraid. It’s John’s father.”

Well, that certainly shut him up. Lestrade glanced at him, waited for a beat, then decided it was in his best interest to just go on, and rightly so. It was unexpected, and John… John would be crushed by the news.

“We received a call from John’s mother early this morning. She’d found her husband when she woke up. We’re running blood test on her too because it’s unlikely she could have slept through it,” Lestrade glanced at him and continued. “Did you know John’s father was diabetic?”

Sherlock shook his head. He didn’t know much about the Watsons. John didn’t talk much about them, or to them for that matter, and he never visited them. Which was… not normal, he supposed, but he himself was the same towards his family. He saw Mycroft more than John saw Harry, of course, but that was only because Mycroft imposed himself, not by choice.

“He had been hooked up to a glucose iv, It was messed up. Doc says he was in a coma long before he died, but-”

“Yes,” Sherlock  said. “I realize what he must have gone through. And the message?”

“‘Sugar is sweet’, as I'm sure you know, spelled out with sugar cubes.”

“Tacky,” Sherlock muttered, pacing in front of the chimney.

“But why would you suspect John? It’s his father, not some bully or bar-brawler.”

“Well… Mrs Watson wouldn’t say anything, but John’s sister didn’t have as much qualms when she arrived. He fits the profile, Sherlock. John’s father wasn’t a very nice man.”

“Violent drunk?” Sherlock deduced with a sigh.

He wasn’t surprised John had never shared that with him. He wouldn’t. People said Sherlock was private, but John was actually a lot worse. The only reason Sherlock knew more about him than most was because he could deduce most of his secrets, but, obviously, not all.

“Did you come to inform him, interrogate him, or arrest him, Detective Inspector?”

“We have evidence this time, Sherlock,” Lestrade said defensively.

The latter then. 

“Evidence?” he asked coolly.

“His wallet.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at such heavy-handedness.

“He’s been framed, Lestrade. Obviously.”

Lestrade licked his lips, shuffled on the spot, looking anywhere but at him.

“Listen, Sherlock… I know, like I said, you trust him, but I’m just doing my job and… are you that sure about John? He’s your friend, I’m guessing the first person you ever considered a friend, so maybe you’re a bit blindsided by that.”

“No,” Sherlock snapped. “I know he’s innocent. He’s been framed and he’s missing. We  _ have _ to find him.”

“Well, we agree on something, at least.”

Sherlock simmered in his own anger, unable to speak another word less he abuse Lestrade, unable to move less he strike him. Because he might, right then. Lestrade believed John was guilty. Sherlock thought those two were friends, not like he and John were friends, of course, but they’d seemed chummy enough, but now, Lestrade wasn’t even trying to disculpe John. He didn’t believe he was innocent, wouldn’t even consider it. Sherlock didn’t know how much time he’d wasted mentally cursing the DI, but the man’s phone snapped him out of it and he listened eagerly for some news of John. Lestrade did not look happy by what his caller was saying.

“Alright, I’ll be right there.”

Lestrade looked at him with that same pitying look he’d had earlier. It was disgusting.

“A patrol apprehended John wandering around Hackney. I’m sorry Sherlock but he attacked them. He’s in hospital getting treatment and a psych eval.”

Sherlock glared at him and made himself move again, feeling stiff as if he’d finally become a machine down to his very body. Phones, keys, wallet. If Lestrade was going to see John, then he certainly was too. As if to prove he could sometimes put his brain to good use, Lestrade wisely did not comment or, God forbid, attempt to persuade him not to come along, and they were off.

 

* * *

 

 

Once at the hospital, Sherlock did have to keep his distance though. Lestrade warned him not to disrupt his ongoing investigation by butting in or he'd have him arrested in the blink of an eye. They were more than a few officers who'd love to do the honours, they both knew, so Sherlock waited while Lestrade did his thing.

Not from too far away though, just on the other side of the window pane, peering at John through the half drawn blinds. He even had access to the audio thanks to the door Lestrade had left ajar in his wake. The DI must have known he would go spare otherwise.

John was… bruised. But no, that was from yesterday on the docks. It was the most obvious change in him, it being physical, but it wasn’t what was unsettling Sherlock. John was… agitated. Very agitated. Both his wrist had been handcuffed to the bed rail so it was no surprise he'd been moved to this private room, or was that a small mercy from Mycroft? Then Sherlock recognised what he saw in John: himself when he had been half delirious on a high, or coming down from one: twitching, eyes darting all over the place, a continuous background of incomprehensible  mutterings. If he wasn't tied down, he'd probably be pacing all over the place. Ha! Take that Lestrade. Proof John had been drugged too, that he was being framed, that he was innocent.

Lestrade finally joined him outside John's room.

“He's not talking,” the DI said. “But I’m not sure he's heard me either. I don't think he even recognised me.”

“I told you. He's been drugged, the same as me.”

“I doubt that. It looks nothing alike.”

“Maybe I've simply built a tolerance.”

“You've been clean for a long time now Sherlock so I don't think-”

“He was dosed with something else, then.” Sherlock said in exasperation. “Why don’t you see it?”

“I want to, Sherlock.” he replied and Sherlock could hear his unvoiced “but” as clear as day, so he ignored him in favour of John.

He could go in. John seemed to have calmed down now that he was alone in the room, although he was still pulling on the handcuffs in a most ineffectual manner. He’d taught him better than that. But something was holding him back. John hadn’t recognized Lestrade so what if he didn’t recognize him either? Sherlock wasn’t sure he could stomach that. He’d never imagined they could be estranged one day, and not when they’d been laughing together just yesterday. In the end, it was Lestrade’s annoying look of pity that pushed him into the room. John startled at the intrusion and Sherlock counted the seconds it took him a moment to make sense of his presence there: far too long. But, to his relief, John recognized him.

“Sherlock? I don’t understand…” he raised both hands towards him before he was stopped by the handcuffs. He yanked on them harder, so Sherlock hurried over to still his hands before he skinned all of the skin at his wrist, although he’d apparently already got a head start on that. “You can’t be here. It’s dangerous,” he whispered urgently, looking around as if expecting something dire to happen in his perfectly ordinary and bland hospital room.

“What is it so dangerous, John?”

“You can’t be here! You’re not! I know you’re not!” John screamed louder and louder while trying to pull himself free again and roll into a ball at the same time.

Nurses pushed Sherlock out of the way to hold John still while a doctor prepared a needle. In one swift movement, he was limp, muttering feebly before he was lost to sleep. The nurses gave him the stink eye which wasn't fair since he hadn't done anything for once, but he exited the room without prompting. Even he could understand he wasn't helping John by being there. He'd be more useful puzzling out what had happened to him.

“Sherlock? You alright?” Lestrade asked putting one hand on his shoulder. 

Sherlock would never admit it but that simple gesture helped to ground him where he needed to be, and not lose himself in his mind palace. Not now.

“Yes.” No need to expound on that. He was functional and it would have to suffice.

“Lab results-”

“Show nothing?”

Lestrade paused and assessed him.

“What happened in there?” He asked with a jerk of his head in the direction of John's room, now empty of hospital staff. His friend seemed so small and lonely in that room.

“PTSD, I think. It’s the only thing that-”

“Sherlock!” came a woman’s shrill voice.

Sherlock looked down the corridor to see John’s sister stalking towards them with purposeful strides, her high heels clicking ominously. He’d only met her in person once but he had to admit she left a lasting impression.

“Harry,” he greeted.

“Ah. And the inspector who wants to put my baby brother in jail,” she added with a sneer when she glanced at Lestrade, who in turn blushed but didn’t try to defend his actions. She ignored him anyway.

“I read John’s blog, you know?” Sherlock frowned at the apparent non sequitur. “You’ll help him, right?  _ You _ know he’s innocent.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, glad to finally have an ally, even if it was Harriet Watson.

“How is he?” she asked peeking through the door but not entering.

“We’re not sure yet,” Sherlock admitted. “Lab results show he wasn’t drugged, but he’s been very agitated and delirious. He thought he was somewhere else and that I couldn’t be there.”

“Afghanistan?” she asked. “He hasn’t had one of those in a while. Not that I know of, but he doesn’t like talking about it.”

“Is he seeing someone about that?” Lestrade butted in, taking out a notepad.

Harry glared at him but seemed to come to the conclusion it might help her brother and gave him the name of his therapist.

“He hasn’t gone for a while, though,” Sherlock said.

“How long?” Lestrade asked.

“Since he met me.”

Well that got Lestrade and Harry to agree on something as they both exclaimed his name in disapproval.

“It was his decision. He wasn’t limping anymore thanks to me, so he obviously thought she wasn’t any use.”

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Any other signs John was still suffering from PTSD?”

“Nightmares... Not as bad as before.” 

He heard the defensive line even as he said the words, and then, he had to submit himself to the reproaches of both Harry and Lestrade, which all boiled down to the fact that he should have pushed John to continue his therapy. They still disagreed on John’s involvement in the murders though. Lestrade was of the mind that his PTSD might have pushed John into seeking revenge against his enemies. Harry snorted derisively.

“I doubt that’s how PTSD even works. Someone might kill during a psychotic episode but they wouldn’t go planning something as… as elaborate as…” she paused for a second, during which Sherlock and Lestrade exchange an uneasy glance because what did you say to someone who’d just had their father murdered and their brother was the prime suspect? She took a deep breath and continued. “Besides, John wouldn’t have killed dad, he thought he had already been dealt the best punishment possible.”

“His diabetes!” Sherlock exclaimed. It was so obvious and such a John way of thinking.

“Yes,” Harry said fondly. “Dad couldn’t drink much after he was diagnosed. It made him too sick. I could never forgive him for before though, and neither could John, but it was easier for mom after that. So you see,” she added turning to Lestrade. “John had no reason to kill him, it’s absurd. John would never kill anyone.”

“Err… No offence but he was a soldier, Miss Watson.” Lestrade pointed out tactfully.

“You know what I mean! He wouldn’t, not now, not a civilian.” Harry argued.

Lestrade didn’t say anything but he gave Sherlock a look that was hard and accusing, glanced at Harry, then pulled him aside after telling Harry to see her brother before visiting hours were closed.

“The cabbie,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t be ratting his friend out.

“I know it was John, Sherlock. Maybe not at first, but I’m not an idiot, I put the pieces together in the end and you’ve not exactly been discreet with that gun of his. I let that incident slip and now I’m really regretting it. Maybe that’s partly why John thought he could get away with all-”

“It’s not him, Lestrade! It’s not him! How many time do I have to tell you he had nothing to do with these ridiculous valentine murders.”

Lestrade tried to shush him but Sherlock had had enough of this nonsense.

“He didn’t commit these murders, they were committed for him. It’s so obvious! You’re being deliberately dense and lazy, just like all the others!”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade exclaimed with a tinge of hurt.

Sherlock did shut up at that, but he’d be damned if he apologized. John deserved better than this, and he would prove he was innocent and shove it in everyone's face until they choked. Without conscious thought, Sherlock found himself at John's bedside, holding his left hand, his right having been requisitioned by his sister. They stayed like that in silence for a while before she spoke up.

“I know you can do it.”

“You'll look after John.”

“As much as they'll let me,” she said bitterly. 

“Here,” he said chucking her John's phone. “Text me if anything comes up.”

“You're just as bossy as he describes you,” she snorted as he left.

 

Sherlock exited the hospital, heading straight for his brother’s office. He hadn't given him any news about the CCTV footage, which was worrying since Sherlock knew very well one of those cameras just happened to be pointed directly at Baker Street and even more directly at their building. So either there was nothing to see, or this was a petty move on Mycroft's part to summon him. Sherlock was betting on the latter.

“News,” he demanded as soon as he walked in the stuffy room.

“Do sit down brother, and don't bother to ask nicely, it's not like I have a million other things of import to take care of.”

“Oh, come off it, Mycroft. You have minions to go over the footage. Well?”

“There is  nothing to report. No one came in or out through your front door after the delivery service.”

“By the back then.”

“Inconclusive. But Sherlock, if John was taken, as you claim, you're dealing with professionals. Trained, disciplined and smart. It is more likely John sneaked out on his own, don't you think?”

“You agree with Lestrade,” Sherlock muttered somberly.

“I have ample data to consider John suspect, yes. Besides men are deceptive and selfish creatures by nature, driven by their emotions and desires. It is nothing new.”

“Not John. You don't  _ know  _ him. Not like I do. He wouldn't do such a thing.”

“You care too much, brother dear, it's clouding your judgement. I did warn you against it.”

“So you're proving just as useless as Lestrade.” Sherlock stood from the chair he had no recollection of sitting in. “I won't thank you for making me waste my time.”

“Wait,” Mycroft snapped.

With a twirl, Sherlock faced his brother once more and took the proffered paper from his hand: the printed test results of his blood sample indicating a simple sedative had been used on him.

“A product John could easily get his hands on, and know how to administer a strong dose of without putting you in danger.”

Sherlock folded the paper. It was useless arguing with Mycroft at this point.

“I've sent a copy to Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft added.

“Of course you have.”

Sherlock would be getting no more help from that front. He debated on where to go next. His usual haunts, the lab and morgue, would yield nothing. The murderer was far too clever and had left nothing behind to incriminate him. So Sherlock had no clue, no witnesses, no leads and no allies. He had no fucking idea how to tackle this case. Just when it was most important he be the great consulting detective he claimed to be, he was at a loss, useless, nothing.

_ John. _

He needed John. He needed his mind palace.

 

* * *

 

 

“Does that make me John 2.0?” the John from his mind palace asked, eyes twinkling with mischief and good-natured teasing. It was a look he'd seen often enough to duplicate perfectly. 

Unease washed over Sherlock at the realization this imaginary construct was currently more John-like than the real John was, but he pushed the thought away and collected the mess that was the Valentine case while John trailed behind him. None of the elements were connected as they should. If they did, Sherlock would have a pattern, a direction, an aim, a path to set down on and unravel the rest of the mystery. But he'd get there, he vowed as he probed at the data, sending a ripple through the cluster of names, places, dates and keywords. He'd start from scratch and build a masterpiece of truth that would set his John free.


	3. Love to Bits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about posting this a bit later than planned but I was told the other chapters were full of typos so I combed through this one, again, and did actually find a few. Sorry about that, but I hope you'll enjoy it better.

John woke up. Hadn't he done it before already? Several times? Or had that been part of the nightmare, too? Christ, he hadn't had such a bad one in ages. Something was very wrong. He felt disoriented, and sick. Food poisoning maybe? Or was Sherlock experimenting on him again?

Last he knew, he’d been eating dinner with Sherlock and then he went to bed… Sherlock was there with him. Strange, but not impossible. And they’d been laughing about something. Had they been drinking? No, that didn’t seem very likely. But why had they been giggling so much, then?

“Sherlock?” he called, but his voice sounded wrong, dry and gritty as the sand. 

John glanced around, but the small room was completely deserted, and foreign. He sat up in surprise at such surroundings, regretting the sudden movement immediately when he was hit by another wave of nausea. What was wrong with him? And where was he? This was neither Baker Street, nor a hospital, or any other place he was used to waking up to. It felt more like a cell, but what he was wearing and the plastic bracelet at his wrist…

His insides turned cold and he vomited this time, bending over the side of the bed just in time. What the fuck was he doing in a psychiatric ward? What had happened? Where was Sherlock?

“Sherlock!” he called and scrambled out of bed. “Sherlock!”

The door swung open before he could reach it and two strong men in dark blue uniforms stepped in. Guards? No, nurses.

“Calm down,” the tallest said, approaching slowly with raised hands, while the other wrinkled his nose and cursed. “You don't want any trouble. It's late and everyone is sleeping, so why don't you go back to bed now?”

“Make him clean up first,” the other whined.

John looked between the two men, gauging his chances of slipping past them. They were slim, and even if he hadn't been  feeling like he was dying of food poisoning, he knew there would be more staff and locked doors behind them.

“Devon,” the first snapped in reprimand. “Mr Watson, please return to your bed.”

John looked behind him at the legless cot jutting out of the wall, at the lack of other furniture save another similar surface jutting out of the wall that might be a chair… or a table? This place was very confusing.

“I shouldn't be here,” John said, willing him to understand. He wasn't addressing Devon, he was a lost cause, but the other guy, the muscular blond with the amiable smile, he seemed alright.

“We'll sort everything out in the morning,” the nice nurse  promised. “If you return to your bed.”

John obeyed, albeit reluctantly, if only because his legs felt like jelly, and he knew he'd get no answers in the middle of the night, whether he made a scene or not.

“Good. Now I'm going to put these restraints on you, just long enough for me to clean everything up. I'll take them off again when I’m done, alright?”

The nurse magicked padded restraints from his bed. John was reluctant to comply, but if he was making the poor man clean up his sick, the least he could do was reassure him he wouldn't be assaulted while he did so. John sighed and nodded, presenting his wrists.

“Good,” the man said, sounding genuinely pleased, then turned towards his colleague. “Devon, get the mop.”

The whiny nurse disappeared, but the nice one reappeared after a moment with a glass of water.

“To get rid of the taste” he explained.

John let him help drink it all up. He would have preferred brushing his teeth, but he was so thirsty anyway that he downed the whole cup in a few seconds. He knew it wasn't recommended when you had an upset stomach, but he was past caring at this point. Besides, he felt a lot better already, sleepy and he didn't care so much about… something… Couldn't be so important after all… 

“He's sleeping already!?” Devon whined on the edges of John’s consciousness. “All that circus and he's sleeping? That guy is seriously deranged.”

John didn't care, he was far too relaxed.

 

* * *

 

 

John was awake, and not awake. Walking in an ever changing world that was as volatile and violent as his worse nightmares, but interspaced with glimpses of a more tangible world which were shut out as soon as he tried to reach through to them and leave the terrifying fog behind.

One such occasion presented itself when he was sitting behind a wall, taking cover from a sniper while his comrades all lay dead or dying around him. Suddenly, his brothers in arms changed faces, became slack jawed men he’d never seen before, sitting or stumbling around a large room. One was lying on the floor, flapping his arms to make a snow angel although John was pretty sure there was no snow there, because why would they be snow inside? John startled when someone talked beside him, pleading.

“-me something, John. It’s important.”

It was as if the sound had suddenly been switched on. John didn’t understand what had been said to him but he knew that voice.

“Greg?” he asked, blinking at the man beside him.

“John? Yes, it’s me!” Greg had looked happy for all of an instant, before his face fell. “How are you?”

“Not well…” John replied groggily. “Where are we?”

John was having difficulties processing his surroundings. This place didn’t look like a normal hospital, this room looked like a recreation room for long term patients, but the patients... something was off.

“The...err... secure facility attached to Nightvale,” Greg replied, fidgeting.

John frowned, trying to make sense of that answer. So it was a hospital, he’d gotten that right, but secure facility? Wasn’t that a psychiatric ward for the criminally inclined?

“Why?” he croaked, then more importantly: “Sherlock?”

“You don’t remember anything? John, it’s important. It’s about the Valentine murders. Your… There was another murder and you-”

“Sherlock?” John demanded again, louder this time.

Had something happened to Sherlock? He couldn’t have been killed by that lunatic. Not Sherlock. No, no, no! 

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” someone cut in, dropping a beefy hand on Greg's shoulder.

That man was familiar... The strong nurse with the dark blue uniform. He’d been nice. Greg was protesting, but the nurse was having none of it, pointing out that he was disturbing all the patients. John needed to know what was going on though, so he tried clinging to Greg’s arm, and before he knew it, patients were screaming and the staff was pouring into the large room to put everything back in order while the nice nurse was taking him away from the noise and everyone else. But he wasn’t taking him to his room. Not that John would know if there hadn’t been a sign indicating the rooms were in the opposite direction. “Where are we going?” he asked, looking up at his nurse.

“For a walk. Some fresh air would do you some good.”

John didn’t protest, but the nurse hurried him along anyway, wrenching his arm forward in such a manner that John stumbled to catch up with his long strides. They walked through several locked doors without meeting anyone and finally exited the building into an underground parking. Strange place for a walk, but no stranger than the places he’d walked through lately. He’d take a parking lot smelling of motor oil   over the blood-drenched fields of Afghanistan anytime.

“This way,” his companion said, pushing him towards a nondescript black car with tinted windows that screamed of a kidnap car so much, John started scrabbling backwards, his slippers sliding under him.

“None of that now,” his nurse chided, pushing him forward with ease.

He opened the door and put a hand over John’s head to ease him into the car before taking the seat next to him.

“How nice of you to join me.”

John was hit by the familiarity of that voice too, but it wasn’t one he’d expected, nor wished to hear, ever again.

“Seb tells me you’ve been such a good boy, too.”

John recoiled at the gentle pat he felt on his knee but forced himself to look into the gleeful face of Jim  Moriarty. It didn’t make sense, nothing did. Was he lost in another one of his nightmares? Had he just replaced the war by the madness? But no, everything felt much more real and solid than before. Clearer. John glanced at his nurse who’d become stony-faced, his usually friendly smile wiped clean off.

“Not too talkative, are you?” Moriarty asked.

“He’s just come out of it, sir,” the nurse put in, sounding gruff. “A good thing you kept tabs on that inspector. I extracted Watson just in time.”

Moriarty cackled.

“Welcome amongst your fellow fugitives, then, Dr Watson. You’re now officially a ‘person of interest’ to the nation,” he said with mocking air quotes. “Naughty, naughty, escaping like that. Right under your friend's nose, too. I hope he won’t be in trouble.”

John winced at the way Moriarty sang the last syllables. He was confused by what was going on, but something that made the consulting criminal so happy could not be good.

“Why?” John managed.

“Why…? Why am I doing this? Because it’s fun, of course! Call it a side-project if you will. Like a hobby. I tried knitting, but it just wasn’t doing it for me.”

At which point John decided it was no use talking to the man. Mad as a hatter, he was. He watched the streets of London whisk by the tainted windows instead, but quickly gave up when the motion made him feel sick again. Drugs. That explained a lot. How long had he been kept under like that? And with what. He tried figuring out what sort of substance could account for his symptoms but had to give that up too as his mind was still too muddled.

“What now?” he asked Moriarty, needing a distraction from the car’s motions.

“Now, I have someone to watch the drama unfold with me. We can eat popcorn. Won’t that be fun?”

No. No, it wouldn’t. But if Moriarty was playing a game… 

“Sherlock?”

Moriarty pouted.

“Boring. Locked in his so-called mind-palace. I just want to…  _ poke him _ so badly when he does that. Think he gave up on you?” Moriarty asked, brightening up at the jab, but John couldn’t care less. Sherlock was alright then, he wasn’t the third victim of the Valentine killer. Because that's why Greg had come by. He hadn't had time to say a lot, but John got that much.

“It was you. The Valentine Killer? You framed me.”

“Oh please, that was Seb. As if I’d sully my hands with such chores. Do keep up, Johnny Boy, or I might get bored with you, and you wouldn’t like that. Not. One. Bit.”

John glanced in turn at Moriarty and Seb, his nurse-serial-killer, wondering which of the two was worse. He settled on silence once more, trying to gauge how much of a ridiculous situation he’d found himself. His life turned upside down because a consulting criminal was  _ bored. _

It was impossible to keep track of time, not with his mind still so sluggish, so John was surprised when he was ushered out of the car, unsure whether he’d been riding for ten minute or an hour, and into what had to be Moriarty’s evil lair, despite it looking so normal. He’d half expected something like a gothic castle or a gleaming metal fortress, something a bit more villainy, but if that meant he could escape more easily, he wasn’t complaining. But escape to what? Had he really become a fugitive of the law against his will? Was that even possible? He could go to Sherlock. He was fairly certain Sherlock would believe him. But John was also fairly certain Sherlock would be watched, and not least of all by his brother. So, no thank you, he had no desire to be in Mycroft’s tender care. The man already gave him the creeps when they were on amicable terms, not that he’d admit it to anyone, but now, Mycroft would probably consider  him a threat to Sherlock and really, no one should have as much power as that man did, because John was convinced Mycroft would just make him disappear somewhere, or send him back to Nightvale where Moriarty would just pick him up again. He was in a no-win situation. Not that he had much of a choice anyway. He knew deep down no one escaped Moriarty’s clutches. The last time, at the pool, he’d been let go, but this time... he’d need a miracle.

John had let his nurse steer him out of habit. A bad habit he was intent of breaking out of as soon as his mind wasn’t so unfocused all the time. He was almost relieved to find himself sitting in front of several computer screens set on a large desk. This was much more super-villain material. Moriarty invited him to take the only seat. It looked like a standard office chair, comfortably padded and mounted on little wheels. John eyed it with distrust because he was just that paranoid about Moriarty and his games.

“It’s not booby-trapped, pet,” Moriarty said with an exaggerated eye-roll.

John sat on it gingerly and Seb immediately loomed over him with duct-tape. John kicked out but was only met with a wall of compact muscles he probably hadn’t so much as bruised.

“Don’t fight me, doc,” Seb warned, and before he knew it, he had his feet and hands strapped to the chair. The large man then left without another word and John found himself en tête à tête with the madman. John almost missed Seb at that moment, even knowing he was a fake-nurse-real-murderer.

“Time to entertain ourselves, Johnny boy” Moriarty whispered in his ear as he reached over him for the keyboard.

John twitched at the proximity, but he was soon distracted by the screens which displayed a news channel, Scotland Yard and even Baker Street. The first two weren’t very interesting but on the third, Sherlock was still as a statue in the middle of the living-room, sitting lotus style on the floor. 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” John muttered.

How did Sherlock not know about that camera? He swiped the place several times a week. John had even called him out on his paranoia and yet, there was the proof it was perfectly justifiable.

“He’s still at it,” Moriarty grumbled, flicking the screen with Sherlock’s image. “Boring. Well, that should change soon enough.”

Moriarty’s fingers then danced for a long moment on his phone. John didn’t care, he could see Sherlock, living, breathing and free, and that gave him strength. He could put up with Moriarty. Better him than Sherlock. Sherlock had been way too fascinated by his nemesis.

“It’s time for the showdown!” Moriarty suddenly exclaimed, making John jump in his chair where he’d almost nodded off staring at Sherlock.

He pointed a finger at the first screen and there was Greg taking a call at his desk at Scotland Yard. He looked ragged but his expression hardened as he listened to the other end of the line, then hung up, let his head fall in his hands for a few seconds before he stood, gesticulated and bellowed orders on his way out. Even without the sound, John could guess what what going on. Moriarty chuckled, but John ignored him, watching as the camera switched to the outside of Scotland Yard where a flurry of police cars were speeding away, lights flashing and, he imagined, sirens blazing.

“Ah, isn’t this all so dramatic, pet,” Moriarty fake-sighed. “How long do you think it will take until your inspector calls Sherlock? I think they had a bit of a fallout because of you. Poor Sherlock is all alone. Even his own brother won’t help him, you know. How sad is that?”

John scowled at Moriarty. It wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock butted heads with Greg or Mycroft, but knowing he was the cause of it didn’t sit all that well. Did that mean the two of them had given up on him? Believed he had killed Brawley, Cornwall and… Who was the third victim? Greg had said there had been a third but he hadn’t mentioned who. John had feared it had been Sherlock, but that was obviously not the case. It had to be someone he had known and butted heads with at some point in his life… So who? The only one he could ask was Moriarty, and he debated whether to question him, but what good would knowing the victim’s name do, in the end? 

Fingers snapped right in front of his nose, jerking him out of his thoughts.

“Stay with me, Johnny boy! The show isn’t over yet.”

This time, his eyes were drawn to the news channel because of the words BREAKING NEWS and VALENTINE KILLER flashing across the screen. They were announcing his escape and then, to his horror and consternation, his bloody picture, a very unflattering one at that, was there on the screen warning people not to approach him and call the police if seen. John groaned. Of course he’d made the headlines as a serial killer. Just peachy. And Moriarty was laughing himself silly as he took in his expression and the nonsense the news was spouting. He hoped the madman choked on his own tongue. John glanced at Sherlock, his only island of calm in this madness, but it wasn’t to last.

“Oh, Johnny boy,” Moriarty said sitting on his lap and patting his cheeks. “You do look so fierce like that.”

John growled, barely holding himself back from biting off the other man’s cold fingers. Moriarty giggled.

“Maybe I should put a collar on you,” he teased. “Is that what Sherlock does, pet?”

John ignored him and turned his eyes towards Sherlock at the mention of his name. He was as immobile as he’d been since he appeared on the screen, looking more like a photograph than video footage.

“What do you think? Should  _ I _ tell him about your spectacular escape? It looks like he has no one to tell him the good news.”

Before John could retort, Sherlock came back to the real world quite dramatically, in a flurry of limbs, scrambling for his phone. He smirked at Moriarty who had apparently miscalculated. Sherlock read a message, then darted for his laptop and looked intently at it for a while before settling into his thinking pose, sprawled in the sofa with his hands steepled beneath his chin. Moriarty jumped off his lap, finally, and was using both phone and computer frantically.

“Urgh,” he spat. “Your  _ sister. _ There’s always  _ something. _ ”

John froze because he did not just hear that. Okay, yeah, he knew Moriarty and Sherlock were somewhat similar, but this was creepy, an echo from the past from the mouth of a good man to the gob of this madman. And what about his sister? How was she on Moriarty’s radar?

“What about her?” he asked, trying to keep the terror out of his voice.

Moriarty made an irritated sound at the back of his throat and turned to look at him, his expression that of a teacher about to scold one of his dimwitted pupils.

“Duh. She’s the one who informed Sherlock, Do try to follow, pet. Really, what Sherlock sees in you, I’ll never know,” he shook his head sadly then brightened up again. “Ah, he’s finally off. I knew this would do the trick.”

“You broke me out of Nightvale just to lure Sherlock out of Baker Street?” John asked incredulously.

“You’ve seen him. He was stuck. Besides, I like kicking the anthill to watch all of them run around in a panic.”

“You’re sick,” John spat.

“Well, you’re the doctor. You’d know,” Moriarty said, leaning over him and breathing down his neck.

_ Creepy, creepy, creepy. _ Material for future nightmares just kept on piling up. John managed to get the toe of his right slipper to scrape the floor and push his wheelie chair just far enough from the other man that he felt he could breath again, and if Moriarty only chuckled mockingly at his efforts, John could live with that.

Cameras followed Sherlock around, and Sherlock, in turn, was being followed. Mycroft’s men, according to Moriarty, and John was kind of okay with that if it meant there was someone to look over him and make sure he didn’t do anything stupid while he was unavailable to do it himself. His relief didn’t last long though, because of course Sherlock noticed his tail and manage to lose them, and Moriarty by the same occasion.

“But we all know where he’ll pop up again, don’t we, pet?”

“Nightvale?” John ventured.

Sherlock would try to pick up his trail. It was a lost cause, but it’s the sort of thing he would do.

“Good,” Moriarty drawled out, patting his head. “You  _ can _ be trained. Maybe I’ll keep you.”

“What’s the alternative?” John asked flatly.

“Well, I am missing a verse,” came the reply with a push of his chair back towards the screens where Moriarty sat on his lap again while they watched the news and Scotland Yard, until Moriarty pointed triumphantly at the third screen. “And there is our dear Sherlock again! Isn’t this exciting!”

The images were from inside the hospital, showing Sherlock and Greg arguing in the large room, from a security camera judging by the quality. John really shouldn’t be surprised, but if he ever got away from this, he’d be even more wary than he’d been before of cameras, knowing that it wasn’t just Mycroft behind that lens, but Moriarty too.. And then, John noticed a large nurse lurking near his two friends.

“Is that… Seb? What… Why?”

“Think!” Moriarty ordered, flicking his fingers at John's forehead.

John was getting quite fed up with being poked, prodded and pushed around by the madman, but, being duct-taped to a piece of furniture there was little he could do about it. He could imagine a whole array of things he’d like to do to the bastard once he got  _ out  _ of the chair though. Moriarty sighed at his lack of response, impatience radiating off him in waves.

“You sent him back…” John stalled, because that much was obvious. “To hack into the security footage?”

“WRONG!” Moriarty boomed, making him wince. “I can do that from here. You have two more guesses and then I use you as target practice for my knife-throwing. Just so you know,” he stage-whispered, jumping off his lap once more. “I'm not all that good.”

The madman laughed at his own joke, but the knife-throwing wasn't part of it apparently, because he had an honest to God butterfly knife in his hand and was playing with it the way John had only ever seen done on the telly. It was hypnotising, but also a waste of time, so he turned his eyes back to the screen, trying to figure out why Seb was back at the hospital.

“He's erasing evidence of my escape so Sherlock won't find me?”

“WRONG!” Moriarty cackled and took a paces back, positioning himself to throw his bloody knife.

What was he missing? Seb had snatched him away suddenly… because he was talking to Greg? Had he been about to give the game away? Maybe Greg would have believed him. But why return? So they wouldn’t know John had help escaping? John eyed Moriarty who had an arm raised and was taking aim.

“Hurry up, pet. Tic-toc, tic-toc.”

If he was wrong, he would be stabbed. Moriarty, whether he had good aim or not, would probably put it right through him out of principle, and John had no doubt he’d let him bleed out too... He’d be the fourth victim, just as planned. Which is when he had an idea so ludicrous, John felt it had to be the answer.

“The message!” he exclaimed. “Seb went back to put the message! ‘And so are you’. He didn’t have-”

... _ time _ , he wanted to say but the word stuck to his tongue when Moriarty flicked his wrist, sending the knife flying at him. John had no time to brace himself, only felt the burn and sting of cut flesh to his right arm before the blade clattered to the floor.

“Oops, my bad,” Moriarty said, sauntering forward to pick up his blade and wiping it on the hem of John's hospital dressing gown. “I didn't expect you to get it right. Let's see how this goes, shall we?”

Just as he said the words, Greg addressed Seb who smiled amiably and led him down the corridor. They disappeared from view but the screen then switched to a first person point of view walking down a similar corridor. A door opened and the camera turned to show both Greg and Sherlock.

“This was his room. No one's touched it except your team, inspector” came Seb’s voice through the speakers, startling John since he'd gotten so used to receiving images only.

“You won't find anything here Sherlock,” Greg said, sounding like he'd been over it several time already, which he probably had. Knowing Sherlock, he'd bullied his way onto the crime scene given Greg hadn't called him in. “Anderson has already gone through it with a comb.”

“Anderson,” Sherlock scoffed, not needing to expand on the subject to make his meaning clear. “There has to be  _ something _ .”

Sherlock started inspecting everything, not that there was a lot to inspect, until his gaze settled on the barred window. Moriarty whooped but John could see nothing there. Sherlock stalked over to said window and inspected it with his pocket magnifying glass, then snorted and blew on the glass pane so it fogged over, letting a message appear. Greg cursed and bellowed into the corridor for Anderson.

“What does it say?” he then asked Sherlock, standing at his shoulder.

“ _ ‘And so are you,’ _ as expected,” he said fogging up the message to show Greg. “A simple soap-based solution. See, this proves John is innocent”

“I think you’re missing a bit,” Greg said pointing at the disappearing peak of a curve under the phrase.

Sherlock bent over lower to blow over it, then recoiled as his own name appeared.

Silence reigned in the room for a moment before Sherlock spoke again.

“I… don’t understand,” he confessed.

“Well, that’s a first,” came Anderson’s snide voice before he appeared in the frame, looking at the window and ranting about childish tricks. Greg pulled Sherlock away and out of the small overcrowded room, the camera pivoting around to follow them, but keeping at a distance.

“I think the meaning is clear, Sherlock. That was a threat if I ever saw one. I’ll have to put you under police protection.

“It’s not John,” Sherlock said. “I know it isn’t.”

Greg’s answer was lost to Moriarty’s mocking words as he clowned Sherlock’s reaction.

“Round two!” Moriarty announced, spinning his chair again so he couldn’t see the screens anymore . “Same rules. What will Sherlock do next?”

John scowled, because if the rules stayed the same, he was going to get stabbed whether he answered right or not.

“Run off somewhere,” he muttered anyway, because whatever the situation, Sherlock always ran off, usually without saying why or where, but John always followed..

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Moriarty answered, cocking his head at the screen behind John. “But anyone could have guessed that much. Try again.”

John sighed, then frantically racked his brain for an answer when Moriarty took up his previous position, ready to throw his knife once more. The sick bastard kept smiling. For someone who didn’t like to get his hands dirty, he sure was getting a kick out of this. Damnit, what would Sherlock do? Run off to where? He had no bloody idea. To whom? Not his brother, apparently, but Sherlock didn’t have friends either. Molly? No. What could she possibly do to help him if there wasn’t a corpse involved. To his mind palace? Baker Street, then? But he’d risk being trapped there by everyone wanting to protect him.

“Tic-toc, tic-toc! One last chance.”

John grimaced, closing his eyes to focus. Where would Sherlock go to be alone and not found, yet still get the help he needed? Oh! His homeless network! But… there was no way he was telling Moriarty about that if there was even the slightest chance he didn’t know about it. It would be like betraying Sherlock. 

“I don’t know,” he muttered through gritted teeth, closing his eyes as he braced himself for the blade this time, but it didn’t come.

John didn’t want to open his eyes, certain the psychopath would throw the knife as soon as he did, but he did anyway when the other man whispered gleefully in his ear.

“You’re lying.”

John jerked his head aside. He hadn’t even heard Moriarty move around the room. He couldn’t escape him though and the knife was dancing across his exposed neck so he was careful to remain very, very still.

“Where is Sherlock going, pet?”

“How would I know?”

The sharp pain and burn across his clavicle told him Moriarty couldn’t be fooled by lies. Just like Sherlock. Moriarty kept asking the same question, over and over again, and John kept denying or offering diversions, lies, but the cuts kept coming, shallow, not life threatening, although… there was only so much blood he could lose. John would have laughed at the irony that he really didn’t know the answer, that all he had was a hunch, and that maybe Moriarty did know about Sherlock’s homeless network. He seemed to know everything else, after all, and he could just follow Sherlock to where he’d ran off to with his damned cameras, so why was he so intent on John giving him his answer and for that matter, why was he so intent himself on hanging on to this tiny piece of information?

His last thought was that he’d never know. He’d just die there on that stupid wheelie chair from blood loss, cut to ribbons by a madman.

 

* * *

 

 

John woke up in a bed, which wasn’t so bad, except it wasn’t his own, or Sherlock’s, since he’d taken to sleeping there his last few  days at Baker Street. It wasn’t even a hospital bed.

“Doc?” a voice asked.

It wasn’t Moriarty’s so that was a bonus. That face definitely wasn’t Moriarty’s. John squinted at it until he recognized his nurse. His nurse, the serial killer. A chuckle escaped him, because that was funny and Sherlock would have found it hilarious too.

“Did you hit your head too?” Seb asked with a frown, then began prodding his skull without waiting for an answer.

John swatted the man’s huge hands away, grunting a no.

“Water?” John asked, then immediately corrected: “Drug-free water?”

John pushed himself up in the pillows, wincing at all the little cuts that had begun to scab over and the bigger ones which were wrapped in bandages pulling in every direction as he moved. The water he got for his efforts was worth it though, but drinking under Seb’s gaze was unnerving. The man sighed as he took the empty glass from him and set it aside while John fell back with a groan.

“I can’t believe you managed to provoke the boss this badly. He left you for dead and I was only gone a couple of hours.”

“Yeah, sure.  _ I _ provoked him,” John muttered.

“You must have,” Seb snapped. “If he’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. I wouldn’t have bothered staging your escape.”

John mentally berated himself for forgetting even for an instant that this man was the Valentine killer and seeing the things he’d done, it might be a good idea not to piss him off either. Stuck between a rock and a hard place indeed.

“How are you feeling?” Seb asked, his voice softer.

“Still in nurse mode?” John asked, noticing he was still wearing his fake nurse garb, then immediately regretting his snark.  _ Serial killer, remember? _

Seb looked down at himself and let out a snort.

“Been a bit busy since I returned,” he pointed out with a nod at his bandages.

John touched the one on his forearm. He hadn’t realized Seb had been the one to patch him up, but who else would after all? It was good work for a fake nurse.

“Thanks,” John muttered.

“You don’t remember me at all, do you, Doc?” Seb asked out of the blue when the silence had stretched, long and uncomfortable, between them.

“From Nightvale?”

“No, before that.” 

He paused but John had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. He didn’t look familiar at all, and he stood out quite a bit, what with his height and all his muscles, so he would have remembered him from a case with Sherlock or during his locum work as a doctor. Seb would look right at home in the army though, but likewise, John couldn’t recall him there during one of his tours, so he probably wasn’t on site with him, which didn't mean they hadn't  crossed paths…

“Sorry, no.”

Seb hummed, then dragged a chair next to the bed.

“I was a sniper in the army. Damn good one too, never missed. Alright, almost never,” he amended at John’s pointed cough because no one was infallible. No one. “But I was getting to that: I did miss once. The building I’d nested on collapsed… I’m not sure why, it had looked structurally sound when I climbed up, but it fell apart just as I pulled the trigger.” Seb paused, taking a deep breath. “My shot went wide, hitting a gas tank instead of my target. When I was dug out of the building, I had a nice Doc to patch me up good and proper.”

“Oh,” John said. “That’ll be me, then.”

Oh, the irony. Save a guy only to have him frame you for murder by killing your former bullies. How… gratifying.

“The boss is right: you really do telegraph all your thoughts on your face. I’m sorry we had to meet this way again. I really am. But a job is a job. It’s nothing personal.”

“So if Moriarty asked you to kill me like those others?”

Seb’s face tensed for only a fraction of a second, but John saw it and filed it away. He’d have to keep in mind his chances of survival were marginally better with Seb than Moriarty.

“Like I said, nothing personal.”

“You did patch me up though.”

“I owed you. Besides, I’m sure the boss didn’t really mean to kill you. He gets carried away sometimes.”

Seb was silent after that, or rather, brooding, and John was afraid he’d suddenly snap and get all Valentine murdery.

“Why did you leave the army?” John asked to get him talking. He was fairly certain you had to keep your captors talking, so they sympathized with you and hesitate before shooting you in the face.

“I didn’t leave, I was kicked out. Dishonorable discharge.”

Ah. Wrong topic, then. Should have asked him if he liked kicking puppies instead.

“That gas tank I shot, it hit several of my men and civilians we were evacuating.”

“But it was an accident,” John protested despite himself. “Surely digging you out of a building was proof enough?”

“They needed someone to take the blame. My bullet, my responsibility. It was easy enough to use me as the scapegoat with such proof.” Seb shrugged, but he clearly wasn’t as nonchalant about that memory as he tried to make it out, his anger still strong enough that John could see the way it hardened his face. “Jim took me in after that, the way Sherlock Holmes took you in. Men like us, we need direction, or we lose ourselves.”

John wanted to protest that they were nothing alike, but the other man’s words rang true. Before meeting Sherlock, he’d been adrift, desperate for some purpose, anything… What if, like Seb, he’d met Moriarty instead of Sherlock? John shook his head, unwilling to even consider such a path, if only because he had morals.

_ You shot a cabbie, _ his mind reminded him.  _ A civilian. Just for Sherlock, who you’d just met. _ John knew he’d never hear the end of that old argument, but he pushed it away too.

“You understand,” Seb said with a nod, seemingly satisfied by his silence, then got up and pushed his chair back to where it was. “Sleep. I told the boss you might not make it, so he’ll leave you alone until tomorrow.  _ Don’t _ try to escape. There’s no way you’ll make it past the first door and I’d hate to shoot you after I went to so much trouble patching you up.”

“Gee, thanks. Good night, I guess.”

Seb gave him a tight smile and closed the door.  _ Locked  _ the door, John corrected after hearing the bolt slide in. He might be able to pick it, but he had neither strength nor time and most importantly, he had no doubt Seb would shoot him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Love Always Finds a Way

A threat? Sherlock knew a threat when he saw one, but he also knew it wasn’t John threatening him, that it was John who was in mortal danger right now, not himself. Giving Lestrade the slip was easy enough. His police protection was laughable at best. Escaping his brother, on the other hand, would be more difficult, but, despite all his little gadgets and resources, Sherlock knew the underbelly of London better than anyone else. Not only the shady parts of its population and businesses, but the literal underbelly as well. So, from the moment he jumped into the sewers, Sherlock knew only his cell phone would give him away when he resurfaced. He kept it though, because he still had use for it later, and simply turned it off for now.

 

“Tuttle,” Sherlock greeted the grubby man hiding in the shadows of a building when he reemerged in a little known dead-end a few blocks to the south-east.

The old man was one of his most prized homeless connexions, because, for the the right sum of money, he could find you almost anything. Most everyone called him Turtle though, because of the large backpack he always carried on his back, but Sherlock had never been one to indulge in nicknames.

“What ye be needing today, boy?”

Everyone was a boy to old Tuttle, so Sherlock ignored the slight.

“A twin.”

The man grunted and stroked his wispy beard as he looked him up and down.

“Dangerous?” Tuttle was a man of few words.

“Shouldn’t be. I’ll need him to pop up here and there around the city, be visible, turn my phone on and off, then disappear again.”

“Decoy, uhm? Alright, but it’ll cost ya.”

Sherlock assured him money wasn’t a problem and twenty minutes later, he was swapping clothes with Leo, a tall and lean hispanic with a mop of dark curls that would cover his tan and features enough to fool CCTVs and anyone who didn’t know him too well as long as they were a few feet away. His phone’s GPS would achieve to complete the illusion.

“Don’t take any risks,” Sherlock reminded the younger man, pulling the collar up on his coat, concealing even more of Leo’s face. “There’s a third player in this game I’m not sure about as of yet, so if you feel the net is closing in, just throw the phone away and lay low.”

Leo nodded, took his wad of bills and walked off, doing an accurate imitation of Sherlock’s own gait. His body-double was a quick study, so Sherlock committed his name to memory for possible future uses. He could always use a decoy.

Tuttle nodded when Sherlock pulled Leo’s cap over his own head, satisfied with the exchange and his commission as intermediary. Returning to the sewers, Sherlock exited in the next alley over, following Leo who was, in turn, being followed was more difficult than Sherlock had anticipated, not only because Leo was quite good at it, but also because avoiding detection by all the cameras was no easy task. Thank God for Scotland Yard’s incompetence which gave him some leeway. 

However, when someone did catch up to Leo, much later that day, Sherlock knew at a glance it wasn’t one of his brother’s men, nor one of Lestrade’s. Leo twisted out of the man’s grip on his arm and ran for it, losing him easily when he entered a busy street, threw his phone in the open trunk of a delivery van and disappeared from view, following his instructions perfectly. Even Sherlock had no idea where he’d gone, but most of his attention was focused on the pursuant who stood in the street looking right and left with an angry scowl before taking out a phone and putting it to his ear. The exchange was short and the man looked grim when he hung up, scared even, which was very interesting. Not that many people inspired such unadulterated fear in their henchmen. After that, it was much easier following the man, right up to a place that looked so bland at first glance that Sherlock thought he’d be in and out in a heartbeat, hopefully with John in tow. However, after a careful examination of the small building, that idea was quickly dismissed. Despite its insipid appearance, the place was no more no less than a bunker, with reinforced doors, sealed windows, surveillance cameras, even motion detectors for crying out loud, and that was only the outside. On the bright side, his suspicion of the third player’s identity solidified, and the only doubt that remained was how deeply involved that player was. Was he playing the game himself or had he set the board for someone else? 

With one last glance at the small building, Sherlock turned away. Within a few minutes he had pilfered the phone from a man who was selling drugs at a street corner and doing such a poor job at being discreet, Sherlock had briefly wondered if he worked for the Met, then decided he didn’t care. He had more urgent business to take care of.

“Who is this?” came Mycroft’s crisp voice from the other end of the line.

“Who do you think?” Sherlock replied.

“Sherlock. You’ve been… busy.”

“I have a gift for you.”

“Really? I think the last time you bestowed such a dubious honour on me was when you were seven.”

“Don’t remind me,” Sherlock growled, trying to erase that memory for the umpteenth time. “I found Moriarty.”

Mycroft was silent.

“Are you certain?” he finally asked.

“No visual, but I’m 80% certain.”

“That’s a no, then. But this isn’t about him, or you wouldn’t have called me.”

This time, it was Sherlock’s turn to be silent.

“I gather John is there? You won’t just walk away with him, you know.”

“He’s innocent.”

“Or he’s found himself a sponsor. Or they were accomplices all along.” Sherlock gritted his teeth, waiting for Mycroft’s decision. He had no other choice. If John was in there with Moriarty, he was in danger. Maybe he was being hurt this very second. Maybe he was- “Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

Mycroft sighed.

“I  _ said _ , if you want me to intervene, Scotland Yard will cooperate too. If what we find there convicts John further, you will let justice follow its course and not intervene. Is that understood?”

Between a dead John and an imprisoned John, the choice was quickly made and Sherlock gave Mycroft the address and a meeting point further away. Surprisingly, Lestrade and his crew were the first to arrive, watching Sherlock approach with suspicion because he was wearing Leo’s street clothes. Then, the penny dropped and Lestrade hurried towards him.

“Sherlock! I thought I told you to stay put. I suppose you’re the anonymous tip-off?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Are you sure about this? I mean, I know you’re sure we should storm this place, but… you realize I’m going to have to arrest John if I find him there?”

“It’s better than the alternative,” Sherlock replied.

Judging by the inspector’s expression, he didn’t understand what that alternative was and Sherlock didn’t have the patience for another argument with the man. His brother’s team joined them soon after and within minutes, they were knocking down the simili-bunker’s doors. Lestrade tried to keep him away, but he might as well have tried to stop a bullet with his bare hands. The inside was less impressive than Sherlock had expected, and, despite its size, looked nothing more than any other ordinary townhouse. There were very few guards, and one of them, the one who had unwittingly led Sherlock there, was already dead, a butterfly knife planted through his heart. But those were only pawns. Where was John? Where was Moriarty?

“Sherlock! Wait up!” Greg called after him, a few feet behind.

“John! I need to find John!” he snapped, not slowing down, scanning one room after another. 

Why didn’t he understand John was in danger.

“I think he escaped, Sherlock. He must have had wind of our plans.”

That had always been the risk when Mycroft had wanted to involve Scotland Yard. People and information were so easy to buy. But Sherlock continued, kicking open one door after another, until one resisted. Sherlock called Lestrade over and he had two of his men rammed down the door in a matter of seconds. All of them, Sherlock included, he was ashamed to say, stood there for a few seconds, just staring. John was sitting in a bed, slumped against the wall with his head bent forward, chin against his chest. Even from the doorway, Sherlock could see he was covered in small cuts and bandages, the white sheets stained red around him. But most horrifying was the large hunting knife jutting out of him at chest level, pinning him to the wall, and the message painted in blood smeared across the white wall next to him:

 

**WITH LOVE,**

**YOUR VALENTINE**

 

Too late. He’d been too late. He wasn’t good enough, and now John… John was... He was gone. Because of him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. John wasn’t supposed to leave him. John couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t-

“He’s not dead!” Lestrade exclaimed.

Sherlock finally snapped back to the terrifying reality to see Lestrade had kneeled next to the bed, holding a trembling hand against John’s pale neck. Checking the pulse… He had a pulse! 

“Get the medics down here! Now!” Lestrade roared and one of his men transmitted the order on his radio while the other scrambled out, probably to show them the way.

“Sherlock! Sherlock! Snap out of it. Help me!”

Sherlock stepped closer, unaware he was holding his breath before his lungs screamed for oxygen. Lestrade’s hand hovered over the knife’s handle.

“Don’t!” Sherlock exclaimed, because the bleeding would be worse once that blade was taken out, more so because it was a model with a notched segment to the blade which would tear apart the skin and muscles on it’s way out.

“Sherlock?” came the ghost of a whisper from the bed, sending Lestrade falling back on his arse. He cursed, then picked himself up and returned to John’s side. They called John’s name at the same time, which seemed to confuse him.

“Greg?”

“Yeah, I’m with Sherlock.”

“Moriarty,” John whispered.

“Yes, John. I think even these idiots got it now. Don’t worry, he’s gone,” Sherlock told him, so glad he got another chance to talk to him, he had to bite his lip to shut up. He’d rather hear his friend’s voice again instead.

John chuckled, sounding pained at doing so.

“Don’t move,” Greg ordered. “You’ve got a knife-”

“Missed,” John mumbled, trying to pull on the handle jutting out of him. “Missed on purpose.”

Before he could ask for an explanation, a couple of medics burst in with a stretcher. To their credit, they didn’t even pause at the macabre display and set about their business, cutting John’s clothes around the knife before conversing briefly between them and then John, seeming to come to an agreement. One of them held John back by the shoulders while the other pulled on the handle. A scream escaped John and the sound of it tore Sherlock’s own heart right out. The paramedics’ hands fluttered over him after that, putting pressure, bandages, a blanket, then they hauled him onto the stretcher and whisked him off before Sherlock had time to recover his breath.

“You’d better hurry if you want to go in the ambulance with him,” Lestrade said, nudging him forward.

Sherlock nodded and ran off after them.

 

* * *

 

 

“How bad is it?” Lestrade asked once he’d caught up to him at the hospital.

“His reputation was smeared, he’ll have nightmares for years and will be covered in scars for the rest of his life. What do you think Lestrade?” Sherlock snapped.

The inspector bit his lip, guilt oozing out of him. Honestly, he deserved a lot worse for having ever doubted John, but John considered the man a friend and not just a work acquaintance, so Sherlock  relented. He didn’t want to cause John any more grief than he already had.

“He’ll be alright. John was correct: the knife wound - the last knife wound - pinned him to the wall by his clothes more than it did his flesh. It only clipped the skin and some muscle in the armpit according to the paramedics. It certainly does look like it was done on purpose.”

“So Moriarty didn’t want to kill John?” Lestrade asked.

“That doesn’t sound like him. He would have put it right through his heart, like he did his man we found on the way down. It was still a close call though. Blood loss was at critical levels.”

“Yeah, about that… Forensics think they found the place where John was…” Lestrade grimaced at whatever he was going to say, and Sherlock might be trying to play nice, for John’s sake, but he wasn’t going to let him be a coward about it.

“Lacerated? Mutilated? Tortured?”

Lestrade remained silent after that. Sherlock sighed. He’d tried, but John was probably going to lecture him about being nice again, which made him smile because he still had John to give him such useless lectures.

“Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock looked between the doctor and his clipboard, wondering which would give him answers first.

“How is John?” he demanded, looming over the smaller doctor to scare the answers out of him faster.

“Well enough. His injuries were numerous but not extensive. His psychological recovery however might-”

“Yes, yes. He’ll go see another useless therapist, I’m sure.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade exclaimed, appalled.

“Uh…” the doctor said, unsure. “He’s asked to see you and an inspector Lestrade if he was there?”

The doctor looked to Lestrade who nodded. “We don’t usually allow such a visit this soon, but given the circumstances-”

The doctor shut up at Sherlock’s impatient huff and gave them directions to a room further down the corridor.

 

“Hey,” John said as soon as they came in.

He had an adorable dopey smile and made an awkward wave with his right hand.

“You’re drugged up to the gills, aren’t you?” Sherlock asked, sitting on his bed on his less injured side.

“Yep. High as a kite. Good stuff.”

“I’m… err… glad to hear that?” Lestrade offered. “You wanted to see me too? I can wait for a statement, especially if you’re stoned.”

“You’re an arse,” John told him, still smiling, which took the edge off the words.

Lestrade was looking at his feet and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I- Listen, I’m really sorry, John. I should have trusted you more.”

“No, not that,” John snorted. “Well, yeah, that too. But you let this idiot get into trouble again.”

He pointed at Sherlock who’d been glaring at Lestrade, wishing he’d just leave so he could finally have John all to himself.

“There’s no stopping Sherlock, you know that,” Lestrade chided, approaching the bed but not taking the empty chair next to his bed. Sherlock glared at him harder, daring him to try and overstay his welcome. “I certainly didn’t call him in. Conflict of interest, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Harry called him. Why  _ did  _ she call you?” John asked, turning to Sherlock because he still didn’t know how those two had suddenly come into contact.

“How do you know that?” Sherlock asked. No one was privy to that information.

“Cameras,” John said slowly with a far-away look, as if he was imparting great wisdom. He really was on the good stuff. “Cameras everywhere. Oh yeah! There’s one in our living room!” Sherlock cursed. “And your office!” he told Lestrade who cursed too. “Moriarty showed me everything… but… well, Seb said I pissed him off.”

Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged a glance.

“Seb?”

“He’s the Valentine Killer. The real one. Well, sort of. Moriarty said he didn’t like to get his hands dirty, but he  _ lied _ ,” John said while pulling at the largest bandage on his left forearm.

Sherlock stopped him, catching his hand and keeping it enveloped in his own. John stared at their joined hands so long, Sherlock almost let it go. Lestrade cleared his throat.

“Can you tell me anything else about this Seb?”

“He said he’d kill me if Moriarty asked him to, but he didn’t. Moriarty told him to, and he didn’t,” John frowned, his dopey expression disappearing for the first time. “I’m tired.”

“Right,” Lestrade said. “Of course. We’ll just-”

“I’m not leaving,” Sherlock cut in.

Lestrade glanced at their linked hands once more and nodded, promising to come back the next day.

“Finally,” Sherlock muttered. “Thought he’d never leave.”

“Be nice,” John tutted, tugging on Sherlock’s hand. Then again, more insistently.

Sherlock hesitated but lied down in the small space next to John, doing his best not to touch him because he was still wearing Leo’s clothes and John was covered in so many cuts. But John smiled, content, before he scrunched up his nose.

“You smell.”

“Part of the disguise,” Sherlock replied, earning himself a chuckle. “Go to sleep, John. You’re safe. I’ll keep my eyes on you. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Sherlock only accepted to leave John’s side when Mrs Hudson came to visit with a change of clothes for the both of them. He was glad to shed his Leo-skin at last. He’d gotten used to the smell and inferior cloth quality, but he felt like he was contaminating John and didn’t dare touch him more than necessary, which wasn’t much. When he returned, Mrs Hudson was still fussing over John, bad-mouthing both the press and the police and telling him she never believed a word of their nonsense. Sherlock reclaimed his spot on John’s bed since Mrs Hudson was in the only chair and they spent a couple of hours distracting John: Mrs Hudson with gossip from Baker Street and Sherlock with deductions about the hospital staff and patients. One of them was dating two of the nurses and almost got caught when his wife came to visit him. Mrs Hudson asked for his room number which didn’t bode well for the man.

When Lestrade arrived, Mrs Hudson took her cue and left but not before telling Lestrade exactly what she thought of Scotland Yard and it’s no good brutes, which amused John to no end. He always got a kick out of Mrs Hudson being a tough old lady. Lestrade sighed when she left, stomping heavily to the vacated chair where he slumped.

“I’ve never gotten so chewed out by so many people my entire life. I swear even the coffee-maker at the station broke just to spite me.”

“You’ve pulled an all-nighter?” John asked.

“Pretty much had to,” Lestrade confessed. “Moriarty is nowhere to be found, of course. So… are you ready for this? You were a bit out of it yesterday.”

John nodded, looked warily at the door where a forensic officer was waiting with a camera.

“Is that really necessary?” John asked.

“It’s to document the case, so yeah, sorry,” Lestrade said.

“I can dispose of them if you want,” Sherlock offered, happy at the prospect. He’d have those two men in tears in a matter of minutes, and he would feel better for it.

“No, no. It’s okay, I understand.”

“We’ll leave,” Lestrade said, getting up and looking pointedly at Sherlock.

“No!” John exclaimed, his hands reaching for Sherlock, gripping his arm.

He glanced at the officer at the door, then at Sherlock.

“I’ll need help getting this damn blouse off, I can't lift my left arm that way with the stitches,” John said. “I- It’s okay, it’s nothing you guys haven’t seen before.”

Lestrade frowned but motioned his subordinate in, thankfully staying in the back of the room to give them space.

“I really can throw them out,” Sherlock told John in a whisper, leaning over him once he had relinquished his bruising grip to help him untie the back of the blouse.

“No. Anything that helps disculpe me, the faster, the better. You know how the press twists and turns all the time. I’m innocent now, but wait till they get bored, you’ll have wild theories flying around. They’ll be saying I stabbed myself to throw off suspicion or some such nonsense.”

Sherlock snorted but he couldn’t deny the likelihood of that. His fingers trembled as he slid the flimsy blouse off John’s shoulders, glad the wounds only covered the top half of his front body so he had that little dignity left. But what he had to show… Christ… it made Sherlock’s blood boil. So many angry red lines crisscrossing his arms, his chest, his neck and face while the rest of him was practically unmarred. John’s mouth was set in a rigid line and he gave the officer the get-on-with-it look that had him scurrying forward with his camera and snapping shot after shot, the flash blinding them all for an instant with every new one. Finally, once the officer was satisfied, he nodded his thanks to John and left without a word. 

Sherlock immediately helped John back in the blouse, reaching behind him once more to tie it at the back for him. John looked up as he did, their eyes meeting, and suddenly, he broke down, right there in his arms, silent sobs wracking his body as he tried to keep them in. Sherlock threw Lestrade a poisonous look and he scurried away, closing the door behind him but lurking there, standing guard.

“It’s okay, John. It’s just the two of us now,” Sherlock whispered, holding him as tight as he dared. “You can let go now. No one will know.”

John did, burrowing his face into his shirt and holding on as if his life depended on it. The trust he put in him in that instant almost threatened to overwhelm him too, but Sherlock had to stay strong for John, if nothing else. However, he vowed to destroy Moriarty, utterly and completely, until all that remained of him was a vague urban legend no one believed in. Eventually, John’s fists on his shirt loosened and he calmed down enough that Sherlock could ease him back in the pillows.

A moment later, a knock on the door announced Lestrade’s entrance.

“I can come back later, if you’d rather.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said just as John said “No.” then added: “I’d rather get it over with.”

Lestrade had his puppy dog look again and seemed on the verge to apologize yet again, so Sherlock pointed at the chair. John began his tale without prompting, starting from the day they’d finished with the Ruggieri case, but he then had to skip over the first few days. He didn’t even know he’d assaulted police officers, was quite horrified by the news in fact. Lestrade waved off his concern over facing charges for that, saying John could probably get away with robbing a bank in broad daylight right now.

“So the first thing I really remember is when I woke up in Nightvale one night, and then when you visited, Greg,” John explained. “Although I have no idea when either of those happened. I don’t even know what day today is. Anyway…”

John continued, his voice sounding far too monotone after what he’d gone through. He had a far off look and didn’t see the way Greg paled, or how Sherlock was twisting his blanket in his hands with every new piece of information, shedding light on the way he’d been used and abused, how they’d all been played like witless puppets for the criminal mastermind’s amusement. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Greg said. “You’re saying the Valentine Killer was the nurse at Nightvale who snatched you out of there?”

John nodded.

“Yeah, you met him. Both of you. He’s the one who took you to my room, he had a camera and microphone on him. I saw you there.”

John waited them out, predicting correctly both Sherlock’s quiet, simmering anger and Lestrade’s swearing down to the last curse, as well as his urgent call to his subordinates to find images of the man in question.

“Do you know anything else about him that could help us apprehend him? Having someone run around the city with a triple homicide count is not exactly helping our case with the public”

John bit his lip then answered by the negative. Sherlock knew he was lying, it was obvious, but Lestrade just nodded, taking his word for granted. Of course, he’d do that now that John was actually lying, not before when he was telling the truth. Sherlock didn’t call John out on it, but he’d get answers when Lestrade left.

“But why did ‘Seb’ help you after Moriarty assaulted you, and then when he was ordered to dispose of you? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Reverse Stockholm Syndrome?” John asked uncertainly. “I think Moriarty should be the one called the Valentine Killer in the end. I know it was Seb who did it, but… he’s only the tool. Moriarty is the one who planned everything and gave the orders. Maybe that’s why Seb helped me? I don’t know…  the whole situation seems so unreal now.”

“Jesus, that guy is sick. Staying close to you after what he did,” Lestrade muttered with a shake of his head.

“Oh!” John exclaimed as if he’d just remembered he needed to buy milk. “That’s right. About that… Who’s the third victim? You said there had been a third when you visited, but you never got around to-.”

Lestrade blanched again, opened his mouth, closed it without a word making its way out. Even Sherlock was momentarily speechless.

“What?” John asked.

“You really don’t know?” Sherlock asked when he’d gotten his vocal chords back under control. “I thought Moriarty would have-”

“Who is it?” John demanded, more sharply this time.

Lestrade was still doing the impression of a fish out of water, but he was now looking at him with pleading eyes, apparently not able to be the one to deal John another blow. Sherlock braced himself for John’s reaction, unsure of what to expect since his friend had never even spoken of his father before. Harry said there was no love lost there, but he knew by experience familial bonds could be complicated.

“It was you father, John.”

The whole room was so still and quiet, it might as well have been empty. Only John’s breathing sounded harsh and erratic while he and Lestrade seemed to have stopped breathing altogether.

“My mother? Harry?” John asked.

“They’re safe,” Lestrade replied. “Under police protection.”

John grimaced.

“They’re not targets, John. They’ll be safe,” Sherlock corrected, receiving a nod of thanks in return.

John became quiet after that and Lestrade had the good grace to stop with his inane questions and awkwardly thanked John, reminding him he’d need to come by the station to sign papers when he was let out of the hospital, which was to be the very next day since his wounds had been numerous but none too serious. 

Sherlock waited to see if John would tell him what he was hiding about Seb of his own accord, but his friend was resolutely ignoring him, probably afraid Sherlock would read the truth right off his face. Sherlock had told John time and again that wasn’t how it worked, it wasn’t magic, but John always thought remaining silent and not meeting his eyes was the best way not to spill the beans.

“I know,” Sherlock said.

“Know what?”

“You know more about this ‘Seb’ than what you told Lestrade. You’re protecting him. However, I can’t begin to imagine why.”

John bit his lip, didn’t look at him, so Sherlock took a deep breath and reached for John's hand. He had liked holding it yesterday, marvelling at the simple yet direct connection it offered, but yesterday he'd had an excuse to do so, and the probability John would be too stoned to remember the next day or even notice he had taken such liberties in the first place. This time, however, it was a risk which invited scorn and rejection. After a few thunderous, rib-cracking heartbeats, John did not snatch his hand away. On the contrary, he gave his hand a squeeze, communicating without words, as clear as day:  _ I need you,  _ and  _ don't leave me. _

“You should know I won't judge you, whatever your reasons. God knows I have no right to. I just thought you should tell someone, and I think I'm the only person you  _ can  _ tell.”

“I guess,” John replied, then sighed. “He protected me.”

“The first aid?” Sherlock asked, his eyes roving over the multitude of cuts when nothing more was forthcoming, because that was already old news. Even Lestrade knew about that much.

“Yeah, but not only that. Seb… He  _ lied _ to Moriarty so he'd leave me alone, and then he  _ betrayed _ him by deliberately missing with his knife. The wound is a scratch, it's laughable, and Seb is a fucking expert. He saved me, Sherlock, three times over. Four even. I bet that was him in the warehouse on the Ruggieri case. But this,” John said indicating the place he’d been stabbed to the wall. “This, he had to betray Moriarty for. That's like me betraying you... I could never… not for me, not for anyone… I'm afraid Moriarty will kill Seb for what he did, or that Seb will not be able to live with himself for his betrayal. He doesn't deserve that… He…”

Sherlock couldn't keep the incredulousness from his face.

“No, I know what he did, don't get me wrong, but...ah, I don't know, I'm not sure I understand it myself. We're very much alike, him and me. I was just lucky to find you to pick up the pieces of me, whereas he found Moriarty.”

Oh. Well, that was unexpected. So Moriarty's right hand man had betrayed him for John because they had bonded somehow. Moriarty wasn't going to like that. Not. One. Bit. And there would be hell to pay. And yet, John still called himself lucky to have met him, Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed consulting detective, despite all he’d gone through because of him. By simple association, his enemies had become John’s enemies. Was that a fair exchange for his friendship? Surely he wasn’t worth so much effort, and Sherlock couldn’t ask for such a sacrifice. But… he’d always been so selfish, Mycroft always said so, and Sherlock knew he couldn’t live without John either, not now that he knew what it was like to have such a companion always at his side. The last few days without him had been proof enough of that.

“There’s no such thing as luck, John. Only chain of circumstances that result in a desirable outcome. There’s no…” Sherlock waggled his fingers dismissively. “Higher forces at work.”

Sherlock congratulated himself when John chuckled, considered his diversion a success. And everyone said he had no tact.

“I dunno,” John said. “Remember that time our suspect got shit on by a pigeon just as he was about to shoot you? Or when Lestrade found that secret room because he tripped on the lever? And that one time the crucial clue to the case literally fell into our hands?”

“Nobody ever looks up,” Sherlock said with a fond smile and they argued for the rest of the day about how much luck came into play in their cases until John drifted off, holding tight to Sherlock’s hands even as he slept.

 

* * *

 

“Everyone’s staring,” John muttered, standing closer to Sherlock’s side than he usually would, as if he could hide him from the world.

“Just ignore them,” Sherlock replied quietly, guiding him towards Lestrade’s office with a hand to his back. 

He didn’t dare touch his arms, not with all the cuts hidden beneath his layers of clothes. If John could have gotten away with it, he would have worn a balaclava to hide the rest of him too, which was ridiculous. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

“I wish it was that easy,” John muttered. “Jesus, is that guy actually pointing his finger at me?”

Sherlock’s head snapped around until he found the culprit and stared daggers at the him, satisfied when the moron suddenly found he had something better to do somewhere far, far away. 

The paperwork they’d come for was quickly taken care of once they met up with Lestrade in his office, but it would have been too simple if it had ended there. Lestrade opened a file on his desk and took out a couple of pictures.

“This one, we got from Nightvale’s employee files. The rest of the info there was a load of bullshit, but even the ID picture is not how I remember the bloke.”

John stared at it, shook his head. Lestrade showed him the second. 

“Looks like he was pretty good at avoiding showing his face on security footage. This is the best we have. Can you confirm this is the nurse who kidnapped you?”

“Kidnapping is it now?” Sherlock mocked.

The picture was grainy and Seb’s head was tilted at an angle that hid the bottom half of his face. Sherlock could recognize him despite it though, and John nodded without comment. Apparently, he was still set on protecting the man despite what he’d done. Sherlock didn’t understand it, but it wouldn’t be the first time human emotions were as indecipherable to him as the solar system, so he would just trust John on this.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a week later and Lestrade had made absolutely no progress in finding Seb or Moriarty, not that Sherlock was surprised. The press was finally beginning to get tired with hounding John to get a word out of him other than “Piss off!” and they were now gleefully smearing the reputation of a minister or other after some disturbing pictures of him wearing a nazi costume had been leaked.

John had nightmares, more so than before, but he refused to tell him about them, just as he refused to talk to his therapist about what he’d gone through, and Sherlock had even nagged him about that. The way he closed himself off from everybody, him included, was beginning to worry him, more so when he discovered most of the mirrors in the flat had vanished or been covered, but he didn’t know what to do other than be himself and keep John entertained as much as possible. Blowing up a pot through the ceiling like a rocket while attempting to cook for John had been a great success in that aspect. John had been very impressed at the improbability of it, then livid at the mess, and finally apologetic when Mrs Hudson came wandering upstairs inquiring about the noise.

On the whole, it was almost like before, but John was always on edge and Sherlock found himself reaching for his hand more and more and simply holding it because it soothed John, just as much as it soothed him. They didn’t comment on it, it had just become a habit of sorts, like the way he would always hold the cab door open for John or how John would always leave a sticky note on his chair when he went out. The list was long, got longer with time and this was just one more bullet point on that list.

“Boys?” came Mrs Hudson’s wobbly voice from the entrance. Was she getting a cold? 

John had already turned to check on her and Sherlock would have had to be blind to miss the way his whole body stiffened.

“You have a visitor,” she added, sounding like she was about to cry.

Slow motion seemed to grip Sherlock as he swiveled around towards the door, taking in Mrs Hudson’s pale face and her bony hands twisting knots in her cardigan, then following the barrel of the gun pressed against the back of her head to the infamous Seb and finally, standing behind them, grinning madly, was Moriarty.

How? How was this possible? Where were his brother's men? Where were Lestrade’s? How could two of England's most wanted just waltz into Baker Street?

“Aww, isn't that cute? It looks like the two of you are having brain aneurism. That would be a stupid way to die, Johnny boy, especially after your  _ miraculous  _ recoveries of late.”

The tension strumming through John seemed to reach breaking point so Sherlock finally gathered his wits enough to place himself in front of his friend, shifting slowly so as not to set Moriarty's guard dog off.

“What do you want?” he managed to ask through gritted teeth.

“Well, a thank you would be nice for a start.”

Sherlock took a step forward, ready to punch that satisfied smirk right off his face, but a pained cry from Mrs Hudson as well as John’s grip on his shirt held him back.

“Why?” he snapped instead.

He was sure he didn’t want to know the answer to that, but he had to buy time for Mycroft or Lestrade to realize what was going on and intervene.

“For distracting the press of course, take the heat off poor Johnny boy. Those pictures weren’t cheap to obtain, you know.”

Sherlock scowled, repositioning himself to hide John as much as possible, wishing for once that he was bulkier to shield him better.

“And distracting all those pesky guards outside. You’re welcome.”

Distracting? The police was easy enough to distract, granted, but how had he distracted Mycroft? It had to be something huge, a national crisis, for him to let his eyes turn elsewhere for even just a moment when Moriarty’s trail was still hot. Unless…

“Misinformation is a great tool,” Moriarty whispered as if sharing an invaluable secret. “Feed contradictory information to two allies and they go round and round in circles chasing each other.” He laughed. “So I just popped in for a social call. After all, our  _ pets _ got on so well together,” he spat with a steely glare at his right-hand man. “That I thought we should have a play-date.”

“You’re mad,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“You’re just getting that now?” Moriarty asked and walked closer to him.

Sherlock couldn’t budge, the squeak from Mrs Hudson warning enough that if he tried anything, Seb would be taking swift action. Moriarty peaked behind him at John who took a step back, letting go of his shirt.

“Don’t hide, pet. I wanted to see my handiwork,” he struck a pose as if admiring a rare painting. “It suits you. Maybe I should do the same to Seb so you two could be a matching pair. What do you think?”

John didn’t answer, his stance combative but his eyes wide with fear. Moriarty huffed.

“Well, it looks like I finally broke you. About time. Tell me, Johnny boy, do you think of me every time you see these?” he asked, tracing one of his scars just short of actually touching him, then he leaned closer and whispered: “I bet Sherlock thinks of me too when he sees them. All. The. Time. Because he can’t cover you the way you covered those mirrors.”

John flinched, making Moriarty laugh, but that stopped abruptly when a beep came from his pocket, his mirth morphing into a pout.

“Time up! You two have been a great distraction, but duty calls. Tchao!”

They all stood frozen on the spot while Moriarty retreated to the door, whistling one of those stupid Christmas Carols, followed closely by Seb, his gun now pointed at Sherlock because he was the most likely to act in this situation. In fact he had his phone out as soon as they’d disappeared through the flat’s door, dialing Mycroft. Then everything happened at once, so fast there was not time to think, only react.

“Mycroft,” he snapped as soon as he picked up so he wouldn’t start with one of his smarmy remarks. “Moriarty is-”

BANG

Sherlock froze at the unexpected sound of a gunshot downstairs, and then another.

BANG

He turned around to see John had pushed Mrs Hudson to cover, then realized his phone was shouting his name.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, what’s going on? Sherlock!”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock whispered in his phone as he edged towards the door. “Moriarty was here, he left but then-”

Someone was running up the stairs. Sherlock flattened himself to the wall, ready to tackle the intruder. His arm shot out just in time, catching someone’s chest and sending them flat on the floor. It was Lestrade, blinking up at him. Sherlock apologized and helped him up, although he wanted to laugh a little at his bewildered expression.

“You guys alright, then?” he asked, after Sherlock had pulled him up.

Sherlock nodded.

“We weren't expecting you. What happened down there?” Sherlock asked with a wave of his hand at the staircase.

“Well I thought the minister's disappearance was a bit too well-timed, and when I learned the team I’d  assigned to Baker Street had been pulled away too…” he shrugged. “Then I'd just let myself in when that bloody psychopath walked down. I had to take cover and they escaped, sorry.”

“Don't be sorry, detective inspector,” Sherlock said happily and loudly enough for Mycroft to hear through the phone. “You just bested my brother and that might just be a first.”

Lestrade blushed and went over to John and Mrs Hudson to check they really were okay because apparently, his definition of alright was not good enough. Sherlock took advantage of the time to hold the phone to his ear again and tease Mycroft until he finally hung up of his own accord. Petty, yes, but oh so amusing and a once in a lifetime opportunity.

The four of them decided to stick together that night, ordering italian and watching anything but the news on the telly. When it was only the two of them again, John clung to his hand.

“He's going to come back,” John said with a flat voice.

It wasn't a question. John knew he would, but maybe he hoped Sherlock could convince him otherwise. Sherlock was good at lying, true, but terrible at lying to John, so he nodded, pained at John’s resigned expression.

“At Christmas, I believe,” Sherlock added.

John squeezed his hand in answer:  _ stay with me.  _ And Sherlock always would.

  
  
  
  



End file.
